


Legend and Lore

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Series: Wayfarer [1]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: BAMF! Bilbo, Dragon! Bilbo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 54,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is the Storyteller of Hobbiton and a dragon in disguise (not that the dwarves know this). When he goes with the dwarves, it's for personal reasons, and they aren't ones he's telling. He knows of many things, and keeps only the most dangerous of friends. He is Master Nobody. Thus begins the journey of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit with no real name and no past to speak of.<br/>They came for a burglar, and they got an enigma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breaking and Entering

BAG END

Gandalf was, in fact, knocking on a the door to an empty smile a week ago. A week ago, he came to inform Bilbo Baggins of a certain number of guests that would be arriving and the infamous and famous Storyteller of Hobbiton was not there.

After having been informed that the “Storyteller is onna ‘nother ‘venture an’ ‘e won’t be back forever an’ miz Lob’lia says is disgrateful!” Gandalf mentally calculated the odds that Bilbo would not be in a week from now. He thanked the lad and set off again after scratching a mark into the master of the house’s freshly painted round, green door. Bilbo would be there. If he wouldn’t, Belladonna never had a problem arriving home after one of her adventures to Gandalf or Gandalf and Bungo, depending on the trip.

Now here they stand, seven days later, standing outside on the front step as if they were selling buttons at the door. Dwalin’s been knocking the longest and no one’s happy about it, either. They’re hungry, and it’s late in the evening, too. Thorin would indeed arrive soon and Master Baggins is not here.

Gandalf decides to take action, and unlocks the smial, bypassing the lovely little magic traps that are surely designed to keep out someone who isn’t Gandalf. The decision made, Gandalf sts about moving everyone back out of range.

In short order, the company is eating, the fires have been aggravated into mini infernos, and Gandalf is sitting in his favorite chair, smoking. When Thorin comes, he sets about eating, first (the delay means that there is food left, despite his getting lost) and inquiring after their host, second. Said host is not here, as Gandalf informs Thorin.

“Where is he?”

“Apparently, Master Baggins has a tendency to… wander. He could be anywhere right now.”

“And you didn’t make sure he’d be here?”

“Well I assumed he would be. The lad never went far when Belladonna was alive.”

“But you didn’t make sure.”

“Aye,” the voice, seemingly thrown, does not belong to any that Thorin knows. It’s nearing midnight, and this is the first surprise. “He did, indeed, fail to make sure I’d actually be here when my house is raided and my pantries utterly destroyed by dwarves.” When the shadows in the doorway move, Thorin catches his first glimpse of his mysterious burglar.

His curls, darker in the light of candle and fire, are a mix of colors, ranging from sable to honey, along with a few strands of near white gold. Large, but partially closed dark eyes sit above slightly softened cheekbones. A small, rose colored mouth is quirked on the right side in a smirk beneath a button nose.

As he steps further into the light, Thorin can see he’s wearing a tunic and leather boots over leggings and a long sleeved undershirt. The tunic draws up high around his neck in a mandarin collar, the over all snug fit of the tunic outlining the fact that he wasn’t quite what other hobbits were, girth wise.

All of this is black and partially hidden by an open leather coat. The large hood was thrown back. It had obviously seen a great deal of wear and tear, but cared for in greater measures.

“Bilbo Baggins, master of Bag End, at your service.” Thorin stands, careful not to knock over his chair.

“Thorin, at yours.” Bilbo stands for a moment before he raises his chin.

“I take it you’re all off to an adventure?” The dwarves look at eachother.

“What do you know of that?” Bilbo steps farther into the room, coming to stand at the empty chair at the head of his large dining room table.

“I know plenty of things about adventure. In fact, the reason I haven’t thrown you all out of my house for entering without permission-”

“But Gandalf let us in!” Bilbo, thoroughly interrupted, turned his mesmerizing gaze from Thorin to a dwarf with nary a beard.

“You believed him when he said it wouldn’t be a problem, didn’t you?” The dwarf nodded.

“Kid, that was dumb. Take care to mind your manners in all things.” Abruptly Bilbo turned back to Thorin.

“As I was saying, the only reason you’re all not scrambling for a place to sleep is because I’ve a personal investment in a certain adventure that should be happening any time, now. I take it you mean to reclaim Erebor?” If the dwarves weren’t already suspicious of their strange host, they certainly are now.

“How did you know?!” Dwalin bursts out (Bilbo does not yet know his name, but he will). Bilbo pulls back his chair, content to sit down, the cane no one seems to have noticed clasped in both hands and resting between his large boots.

“Gandalf did contact you, then.” Thorin’s voice is a low growl, but it doesn’t faze this hobbit. “You lied.” Bilbo’s voice, when he does deign to respond through the shouting of the other members, is sharper, and has lost it’s pleasant air for a more biting one.

“ _Wrong_ , Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, Heir Apparent Under the Mountain, Gandalf did _not_ tell me. I already knew and believe me when I tell you that my presence here is _solely_ for your benefit. I have been waiting. Had you taken any longer, I would have come for you myself.”

“Who are you?” Thorin’s eyes are dark with barely contained pride and the need to draw his sword.

“Nobody. And everybody. Anybody, really.” That pleasant voice is back, and Bilbo now sits back in his chair, elbows one the armrest, and fingers crossed and steepled in front of him. “But let me tell you something useful. I’m the only one that can take care of Smaug for you, and I won’t wait much longer to do it. You have a contract, I’m going to sign it if I’m satisfied with it. Then I’m going to take care of my stuff and my home, pack, and make sure everything is in a place it can be left in. Then, we leave on your quest, and you actually get your homeland back without the deaths of innocents on your hands. That stone you want can’t do any of that. It’ll cost you an army, at the minimum, to go about it your way.”

“And if I refuse to hire you, Master Nobody?” The title is mocking, but the question sincere.

“Then you’re out at first light, when I perform the first of my errands. I do everything but the contract part, and then I’m gone. I reach the mountain weeks ahead of you, do what I came to do there, and leave the mountain to whoever gets there first. It’ll probably be the elves.”

“How would you get there weeks before us?”

“That’s my secret. It also doesn’t matter. Decide. Am I with you, or not?” For a long moment, the murmurs died away as Thorin and Bilbo look at each other; the dwarf with the tragic past and heavy burden, versus the hobbit with no past at all or even a name that isn’t fabricated.

“With us. Balin?” The old, white haired dwarf unrolls the contract in front of their soon-to-burglar. He takes it and reads at a fast pace, then sets it down.

“Add a clause that says should any of you betray me, as a group or as an individual(s), then I retain the right to walk away at any time, no matter how long ago the betrayal was or the circumstances.” Thorin’s head nods, a glimmer of a smile on his mouth. This hobbit is not the grocer he was expecting.

“Very well. Balin will have it ready by the time you are set to leave.”

“Then it is a pleasure. Will you all be sleeping in the same room or separate ones?” Thorin glances at his men.

“Together.”

“The main room is big enough. It also has a desk, Master Balin. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He makes for the door, stops, and turns back.

“Gandalf? Don’t let people into my house. I don’t even want you here without permission.” Gandalf simply nods. He almost added a comment about how Belladonna wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass, but that’s something for later.

The master of Bag End disappears into the soft glow of candles and firelight, and the Company is left wondering who the fuck they just invited to join them.

 


	2. An Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf royally screws up, and Thorin must know.

They aren’t stupid, per se, as they are, in fact, in Bree. Bree is the first milestone of the journey and they did not get lost on the way here. Thorin was not the pathfinder through all this (who the fuck gets lost in Hobbiton, again? One road. Not even a big road with little baby roads branching of it. Just one road.), so it’s not as if they’re completely lacking in common sense.

That common sense just doesn’t quite cover every area, apparently. This is the only answer to why no one bothered to tell Bilbo where they were to meet up before completely disappearing into the crowded market of Bree and her many roads. They haven’t even gotten to the proper inn, yet. They’ve just taken off. That’s really fucking annoying when all you can see is a lot of knees and feet. Ah, well. He could meet up with them outside Bree. He had stuff to do anyways.

That settled, Bilbo is not overly worried that all his companions are gone, leaving him and Myrtle alone. The hobbit sets out through the crowds, picking up this and that, filling in all the gaps in his luggage. He had to get rid of his old gear (most of it, anyways). Since he hasn’t made a long trip in a few decades, his supplies are woefully nonexistent in that area.

By evening time, the dwarves (wherever they may be) are installed at an inn, and Bilbo is in the wooded area on the outskirts of town, settling his horse down with a glamour and a snack (he doesn’t need his horse snatched, after all). Then, he goes to his pack and removes a couple of knives from an outside pocket. Blades in one hand, cane in the other, Bilbo turns to face the quickly gathering gloom.

Slowly, the strange hobbit makes his way through the forest to the remains of a badly made and hastily abandoned fire. The ashes are cold and muddy, so water was used to put it out. They can’t have been gone for more than a few hours, though, because animals have yet to return to what’s clearly a popular foraging ground. The odor of the place has dissipated to most noses, but it’s still there to Bilbo.

Whoever was here abandoned camp not long ago. Bilbo, once sure of their direction, takes off after them, the disgusting smell getting stronger in his throat.

…

“Where’s Bilbo?” Ori asks as he eats another sausage. It’s not like Ori cares (or so he says), but it’s not good to leave the group. Thorin looks up.

“According to Gandalf, Master Baggins is taking a little side trip. We’ll meet with him before we leave Bree.”

“But what if he gets hurt?” Ori’s head’s now craned to look at his taller brother, Dori. The dwarf gives him a soft smile.

“Not that one, Ori. He’s too ready for it.” It’s not that Dori doesn’t care, but there’s something about Bilbo that tells a story the man himself is keeping mum on. He remembers the conversation his brother struck up with their burglar.

…

It wasn’t much of a surprise when Bilbo hesitated getting on Myrtle, but swung up gracefully still. He clearly did a lot of foot travel, not horse travel. As it is, he didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass once he was on the pony. Without further ado, Bilbo Baggins road out after thirteen dwarves and a wizard, who should really stop meddling.

In the evening, as Bilbo fed the fire sticks and branches to make it soar, Ori walked up to Bilbo.

“Master Baggins?”

“Ori.” He’d been introduced on the morning of departure, yet hadn’t spoken to the scribe.

“Ah... as you know, I’m supposed to record the journey… and I was wondering… if I could draw you?” Bilbo gives him a dry look, and Dori has to make himself sit still. This hobbit character does not sit well with him.

“No.”

“O-... okay, then, would you mind telling me about yourself?” Bilbo looks at him.

“I’m fifty years old. I am the son of the late Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. I grew up in Hobbiton, in Bag End, on Bagshot Row.” Ori’s head tilts to the side. That sounded all right, but that was so ordinary. Bilbo clearly wasn’t ordinary.

“That’s not all, is it? Why did you tell Thorin you were no one?” Bilbo gives him a cold look.

“Don’t ask questions you won’t get answers to.” The hobbit had stood up then, and left. Ori, rather put out and a little upset, had watched him for the remainder of the evening. Dori, for his part, had understood Bilbo the first time around.

How do you hurt nobody?

…

Outside of Bree, Bilbo catches up to an orc. He doesn’t attack it, but he does watch it. This orc is a strange one. From Bilbo can see, this orc is different. It’s the kind of different you aren’t supposed to see, this close to the Shire.

He doesn’t attack. He doesn’t let himself be seen. For a while, he doesn’t even breathe, as he stares at that orc. Suddenly, he’s gone, because he knows why that orc is there.

In short order, Bilbo is tracking his group through the streets, tacking his pony, and storming into the inn. His eyes rove the smoky interior until they land on Gandalf in the corner. The hobbit raises one gloved hand and points.

“What did you do?” Gandalf, for his part, takes a moment to think back. What did he do? The only thing he had done was let himself into Bilbo’s house… oh.

“I put them back.” Bilbo lets out another snarl.

“Not well enough.” The conversation ends there.

For the rest of the evening, Bilbo’s demeanor is one of frosty silence. Fucking meddling wizards! He should have fucking waited!

Bilbo sighs internally. He’s going to have to tell Thorin.

 

…

They are gone the next day. As the town fades away and trees overtake their view on all sides, Bilbo spurs Myrtle on up to just behind the front to the column. When he is abreast with Thorin, he looks at the dwarven king.

“I need to talk to you.” Bilbo’s voice- quiet in the soft forest light- draws Thorin like a moth to a flame.

“About?”

“What Gandalf and I spoke of last night.” Thorin nods and, without further ado, stops his pony and waits with Bilbo as the rest of the company passes. When Gandalf, at the end, rides past them, he and Bilbo’s eyes meet, and it isn’t hard to understand the fact that the hobbit is still very angry. Thorin can relate to that. Hell, anyone can relate to that.

“What is it?” Thorin says when they are far enough back that even Gandalf cannot overhear them.

“Remember what I said back in Bag End?”

“About being nobody?”

“Yes.”

“You were telling the truth, weren’t you?”

“I faked my death some years ago. Before you ask, I’ll not tell you why. What’s important right now is that I made some very powerful enemies and a few of them know how to raise the dead.” Thorin starts. He nods. Even a person who had been preoccupied with keeping his people alive through the years knew what a Necromancer was and he knew not to utter the name aloud.

“When Gandalf brought down the magic in my smial, it enabled a certain person to catch wind of my whereabouts. I believe we are being tracked by him now.”

“Any reason why I shouldn’t just leave both you and Gandalf here?” No one threatens Thorin’s people. Not even one of his.

“It’s too late. It was too late the minute my smial was tampered with.”

“What would you have me do, then? Keep going on an already dangerous journey and get killed, because a man who never left hobbiton somehow made enemies outside it?” For a minute, Bilbo’s face shows just the tiniest hint of guilt and shame. Then it’s gone, smoothing back into a set of unreadable features.

“Trust that I know what I’m doing. It’s high time I went back, anyways.” Thorin looks at Bilbo, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man before him plays a very dangerous game. He doesn’t intend to lose.

“You get one shot.” Thorin’s voice is cold and quiet; perfectly clear in the cool morning shade. “And when this has all been done and over with, you and I will be having a long, long talk.” Bilbo nods. Thorin kicks his pony into a run to overtake the distance they’ve let fall between them and the company.

When Bilbo catches up to Gandalf, the wizard turns to him.

“He didn’t look too angry.”

Bilbo ignores him. The sodding bastard’s probably enjoying this. He pulls out a small, leather bound journal and its attatched pencil and writes something down before putting it away. Gandalf doesn't ask what. Bilbo would not answer him.


	3. Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The troll scene, retold.

The farmhouse is a blackened, abandoned one, and Bilbo doesn’t like it any more than Gandalf does. Nevertheless, he is pushing to stay there, for once siding with the very acerbic and icy Thorin Oakenshield. This area, according to the small journal that did not always belong to him, was warded sometime within the last quarter century. No undead will walk through these premises for at least another two hundred years.

Gandalf, however, believes they should move on. Bilbo doesn’t give a fuck, really. He’s had enough of that damn wizard. Whatever dangers presented inside the warded area are far better than what’s outside it. This close to Bree, Bilbo doesn’t trust whoever’s on their tale to be so far behind as to not Raise* near them.

After Gandalf- Tharkun, as Bilbo calls him in his head- storms off, Bilbo takes a look at the fire-ravaged walls and sighs. He had no idea what caused this fire, but it was natural. That was good. He could work with natural.

…

He’s not sure how Fili and Kili get caught by some fucking trolls, but he does know that he’s going to have a word (or three) with them when he gets their skinny asses and fucking Ori out of that little bind.

All that stops, unfortunately, when Ori damn near loses his life in a troll’s grip. In short order, their roasting over a fucking spit and Bilbo’s sitting in a bag, debating whether he wants to do a few stupid things to get them out (stupid things that might not work) or go the tried and true route and raise questions. He looks at the scribe. Ori spins slowly over the fire, whirling ‘round and ‘round. If there is one thing Bilbo Baggins does not do, it’s place comfort over life. He will brave the questions.

“That’s a dumb idea.” Bilbo’s dry, disinterested call attracts all three trolls, who eagerly await dwarven demise.

“Wot’s a dum idea?” The troll with the ladle says.

“Cooking dwarves. They have worms you know. You’ll get all kinds of stomach rot that way.” Kili calls out something about not having worms, which is silenced by a thump, and ended with a call of “I’ve the biggest worms of them all!” Bilbo doesn’t so much as flinch, but he’s plotting all kinds of ways to drill it into their heads not to do stupid shit that ends like this.

“Then wot is a good idea?” The troll with the ladle abandons his plunder and turns towards Bilbo. The hobbit, for his part, simply smile.

“I could tell you how to get rid of the worms, but then I’d have to tell you why.”

“Why?”

“You want to know why you’ve been robbed of a perfectly good feast, don’t you?”

“We’ve eaten plenty of dwarves.” The dwarf with the weird weapon Bilbo thinks Ori may have been trying to liberate.

“Then you’re very lucky fellows. That luck, however, stops here.”

“Alright. Tell us why.” Ladle apparently wants to eat and eat quickly. Bilbo smiles. ”Untie me.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Bilbo’s voice comes out as strangely petulant. “I don’t have to tell you how to cook dwarf, you know.”

“Yer tellin’ us why. Not how.”

“You need to know why in order to learn how.” Ladle looks at Stick-Blade and the other dwarf, who’s been dubbed Quiet in Bilbo’s mind. It is the latter who stomps around the campfire, plucks up Bilbo, and shoves him face first into the fire.

“Let’s see if yew cook.” Shit! Those motherfucking- Quiet’s name changes to Dead Man in Bilbo’s mind as his secret is revealed. Everywhere the flame touched, his skin quickly shifted from tanned to a deep ruby red and his hair began to darken on the ends. Horns quickly sprouted from his forehead. They followed the curve of his skull and curled back to form wickedly sharp points. As his whole head was in fact entombed in flickering flames at the moment, his mouth didn’t escape without change either- his canines were suddenly longer, sharper, and deadlier. Small patches of red scales could be seen on his temples, highlighting his suddenly sharper cheekbones, and ringing the base of his horns.

Amidst the shouting of his companions, and the gasp of horror from Ori, who witnessed his transformation, Bilbo Baggins is, for a few moments, strangely reminiscent of Smaug. He hadn’t meant to do that...

As the troll pulled him out, Bilbo cast a glare in their direction. In that moment, Thorin can clearly see those molten gold eyes and strange, diamond like pupils. He gets caught in Bilbo’s gaze for just a moment, and he can’t look away… Bilbo’s tilted away from him, and the connection is cut.

Just as quickly as they appeared, the horns, the scales, and the skin color is gone, but the eyes remain drilling into that of the trolls.

“I don’t _cook_.” For a moment, Thorin has this hysterical thought that he fucking invited Smaug himself on the journey to kill Smaug and take his horde. Thorin Oakenshield does not do hysterical, though, so he squashes the thought and all the little thoughts (and memories. and nightmares) and tunes back in just in time to get lost in a hypnotic voice he did not know Bilbo possessed. For a split second, Thorin internally fights with the voice before it wins. His last, conscious thought is this: _You may not cook, but you will fucking_ fry _when I get my hands on you._

Then he, like the rest of his men and the trolls, is lost in an ocean of words. A single current emerges.

“Once, there was a dwarf.” Bilbo, inches from a troll's face, has begun to weave a story.

“He was beautiful. His hair shone white as innocence, as did his skin. The dwarf, a miner, would work beneath the earth and emerge black as experience, covered in coal dust as he was. This brought him many compliments, but when he came of age, misfortune showed its hand.” The troll, now deeply mesmerized, has loosened his hold on Bilbo, who easily slips from his hand to stand on top of it.

“Every day, the dwarf would go to the mines, and every day, on his way home, he would be followed and cajoled, pleaded and assaulted. There were many who would kill for a beauty such as the dwarf possessed, and none who would love him beyond it.” Bilbo nimbly hops to the ground, and he’s closely followed by the three trolls.

“Things never got better. The longer the dwarf remained alone, the harder his suitors pushed, and the more terrified he became. He grew thinner, and lost muscle from fear and a poisoning. All along that time, he would go into the mines innocence white, and come out sinfully black.

“One day, when he looked into a mirror, the dwarf, on seeing how gaunt he was, knew that things must stop. As he want to bathe, and wash away the coal, he realized that with it, he looked simply beautiful. None of the strange allure of his accompanied him when his hair and skin were dimmed with dust.

“When he stepped from his house the next day, the pain and sorrow of the last few months shown on the outside in the form of coal dust. It helped. In time, there were less suitors, but they weren’t all gone, and not all of the violence and relentless pursuing had stopped.

“He knew he had to make himself unwanted- completely unlovable. To finish off the deal, the dwarf ate worms that were known to thrive in the stomach. From that day forth, no one courted him. No presents were left on his doorstep. No one tried to force him to do anything anymore.

“For years, the dwarf went to the mines covered in coal dust in the morning, with a fresh coat at night. A decade later, when he married a dwarf that had been too shy to court him, the dwarf with the pale features finally washed away the coal dust and drank a potion to drive out the worms. What he found when the last of the dust had gone was that while his skin was still white as as new snow, his hair was dark as a raven- a testament to all he’d seen and done.

“That is why, to this day, dwarves away from their ones have worms in their stomachs- to protect the bond before it’s ever born.” At this last sentence, a white powder was gently floated up from Bilbo’s hands and spread into the noses of the three trolls.

As soon as it’s dissipated, Bilbo turns from them and cuts the bonds of the nearest two dwarves- Dori and Balin. Then, he kicks dirt and debris over the fire, extinguishing it. The dwarves are up and moving about, but the trolls watch him, seemingly still mesmerized.

“Oi…” Ladle says, “why are you takin’ our meal? Yew said yew was gonna help cook it…” Bilbo doesn’t stop moving.

“Oh, don’t you know? You sold them.”

“For what?” Bilbo plays them along, because if they get angry (which will happen if he ignores them.) the effect of his story will be broken.

“A story. Those aren't free, you know.” The trolls look to each other as Dori and Thorin work to move the big spit over, so that when their comrades are cut down, it won’t be into hot coals.

“Why?”

“It’s just business.” Just then, the dawn sun peaks over the horizon, turning the three trolls to stone as they sit there like toddlers, too dull and mesmerized to really understand what’s going on.

“You and I will talk about this later.” Thorin says low in his ear as Gandalf appears and directs them to find a goblin cave. After nodding, he’s left to follow the others in peace. They themselves are watching him warily. Bilbo can understand. No one is comfortable with a man who can take away your every instinct in the first sentence of a story.

In the troll horde, Thorin turns to Gandalf.

“What the hell was that?” Gandalf shrugs.

“It seems the Storyteller is indeed back from the dead.” Thorin doesn’t bother with another question. The fucker’s too elusive to bother with. He’d just have to get it from the apparently dragon-esque hobbit. When he watches Gandalf hand Bilbo that sword, Thorin can't help but wonder if it's the first time the Hobbit's ever held an elven blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Raise: as in necromancers Raise the dead.  
> I tried to make the story a darker version of snow white, so let me know if you can tell.


	4. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo distances himself and has a dream.

Bilbo, for all intents and purposes, is acid to Thorin’s ice; a tempest to an inferno. That is why they won’t stop fighting. The horses, having been lost yesterday when Ori succeeded in cutting them but not keeping them, are long gone. With what bags that were pulled off before the debacle, the company trudges on.

Some of them, like Fili and Kili, are a bit too preoccupied (with trying to apologize to Ori, who’s taking none of it, and avoiding Bilbo, who’s also taking none of it) to notice the fact that there is a rhythm to Thorin and Bilbo. There is a rhythm to the way they snarl at each other when one marches up to the other with the Doom Face on.

There is a rhythm and a pattern. It’s a routine, and it is comforting to Ori. If Thorin and Bilbo are arguing, all is right with the world. They are, after all, two alphas, existing in the same space, holding no former knowledge of each other (Ori thinks. You can’t tell with Bilbo), and having no reason to trust each other.

They must trust each other, because after Bilbo explained why he was a red-skinned dragon for a moment and told them why he had argued to stay in the farmhouse in the first place and why he is here (personal business. No, I’m not elaborating) instead of  wherever it is that dragons go (round and round the garden like a teddy bear. As if I’m going to tell you) it became apparent that they would not be reaching the mountain without him.

Ori, on hearing Bilbo’s explanation, did not sleep or relax for hours until the hobbit (dragon?) had sat down beside him gracefully and told him that they were within a safe spot, and if Ori slept out in the open in this spot for a hundred years, nothing unnatural would get to him. As he explained this, Bilbo had pulled out his pipe, stuffed it with Old Toby, lit it, and pulled it into his lungs with an air of experience and, oddly enough, restfulness.

It was this restfulness that tipped Ori off. He started to watch dragon and dwarf alike, and couldn’t help but notice that when Bilbo was gearing up for an argument, he always went strangely quiet. He seemed to relax right before he swept up behind Thorin in that quiet way of his and told him something too low to hear.

Thorin, for his part, was apparently fine with being surprised every time Bilbo wanted to talk to him, because he never really doubted who was there anymore. The two of them simply moved off to a distant corner of camp, and heated words were exchanged, all while Bilbo was smoking or writing in his journal and Thorin was caring for his weapons or staring at Bilbo’s hands when they were concealed by pages and leather covers.

Ori noticed that while their shared gazes are hostile, tongues sharp, they seemed to be dancing more than fighting. They were, after all, orbiting the same thing. The reason why they were crashing into each other is because their orbitals were different.

Now, late into the afternoon the day after the trolls cost them a night of sleep and good ponies, the two were arguing, but it was not the normal argument. Thorin was angry. When Thorin gets really, really angry, he gets quiet.

Ori watched worriedly as their conversation fails to reach his ears. This argument they’re having is not, under any circumstance, normal. Ori glanced at Dori, who was watching the pair. In fact, nearly every member of the company had their eyes trained on Bilbo and Thorin, just waiting for the hammer to fall.

…

The conversation had started simply enough. They always started simply.

“Bilbo.”

“Thorin.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Come on.” So Bilbo follows Thorin to the front of the line. They move past it, taking lead duty (Thorin might get lost, but Bilbo won’t).

“The trolls.”

“What about them?”

“You told them it was just business.” Bilbo takes a moment to compose his answer. He’s standing at a fork in the road, here. He can tell Thorin it was just to distract them, or he can say something hurtful and mean. He can ruin what bonding they’d done. Bilbo, after all, never gets close to anyone without a thousand arguments between them. If he ruins their chances of not hating each other, then none of Bilbo’s life will fall on their heads.

“It is.”

“Yet you’re here for a personal reason.”

“I’m going to the mountain for personal reasons. The reason I waited for you to decide you wanted to go, too, is because to do otherwise would have been bad business. So no, I’m not here for anything personal.” Thorin falls silent. Bilbo proved himself a warrior- someone who would survive and maybe even thrive on the open road- in Bag End. Most of the time, they fought and argued over things like whether to stop here or push on to the next cold site (what Bilbo calls the warded areas). Sometimes they argue about the best way to do something, or philosophy. Bilbo has proven intelligent.

Over the course of the time it took for them to get from Bag End to the trolls, Bilbo had earned respect he doesn’t know about. He had started to mean something to Thorin and yet-

“Are we all just business to you?”

“Of course. Good business, but business still.” They walk in silence, the heavy tread of boots on the ground the only noise.

“If we really are just business, then why did you give up your secret for Ori?” Bilbo smirks at him, further sealing the distance he intentionally created.

“No need to damage him so young.” After all, he’ll be a burden. The unsaid part that Bilbo doesn’t mean is screamed loud and clear. Thorin won’t want him now. Bilbo did what he meant to do. He drove him away (it’s for the best).

...

_The salty air whipped away and around him, snagging the edges of his clothing and danced with them all night. The sand beneath his feet squeezed in between his toes and curled in the cracks of his feet._

_The moonlight made him look like a nymph, young and slender, agile and untouchable. He shivered, as the temperature was cold. No matter how he wrapped his arms around himself, he could not stop the frosty rushing from chilling his bared scalp._

_It was a scalp covered in tattoos, most of the runic variety; beautiful, meaningful, strange. He had gotten them because he was the same way, back then. Back then, he was consumed by curiosity, driven by obsession. He was searching for something. He had been ever since that night, nearly a year ago._

_Now, with his Coming of Age just a few weeks off, things were pressing down into him, trying to mold him into something he couldn’t be; in a family oaks, there was no room for a will’o’the wisp._

_“You’ve been looking for me.” The stranger, behind him, was not there a moment ago. He wasn’t there when Ezra had trecked out here night after night, always careful to avoid a family of a thousand eyes. It was not unlike the many secret nights he had spent weaving tales to children whose faces he did not know. They did not know his._

_“Yes.” Ezra turns, only to be stopped before he sees that strange, dark person. He was shadowed the way Ezra had been until tonight, when he made the decision to draw a creature of shadow and dreams out with a bit of light._

_“Why?” This gives Ezra a pause- a long pause at that- because he has no idea why he’s been searching for a man who, up until a few moments ago, didn’t exist. He didn’t even know that what he was looking for was a man. It could have been a damn Necromancer, and Ezra could have known that to it’s fullest extent, but he still would have searched and searched and searched for it. When he manages to settle on an answer, he only stirs up more questions in himself._

_“I couldn’t not look for you.” And why not, exactly? What was stopping him from walking away?_

_“You’re obsessed.”_ Yes _. Silently, Ezra noded, realized with freezing clarity that this shadow-dream-not-quite-real man was, indeed, correct. Even though Ezra wanted to say he’s not obsessed (he wants to say he’s not like them. He’s not like the strange men and women who existed in his father’s court without quite being there.) and he’s not losing his mind but in the end, he was losing it, and in a few weeks, he’ll lose so much more._ Yes _, Ezra noded again with much more finality than first insubstantial shake._ Yes, I’m obsessed.

_The man, surprisingly, held out his hand. A second’s hesitation, and Ezra’s gripped it in his own, much smaller one. This man, this strange thing, was very tall, and had large hands._

_“What’s your name?” Ezra says, eyes open wide because this man was so warm it felt like summer at its height, when there was no wind to run away with your sweat. Ezra breathed deep for a minute as the silence stretched around them. The figure takes a step closer, opened his mouth and…_

__

…

Dawn breaks peacefully over the small cave the company’s camping in. The sweat that gathers on Bilbo’s forehead is the only proof he dreamed. To everyone else, Bilbo slept the night through. He won’t tell them, when they ask what’s got him spooked. He’ll say he didn’t dream, and they’ll believe it, because he’ll say it the way he says everything: all acid and fire.

He did, though. He definitely dreamed. He doesn’t know why it scares him, or why it feels like a nightmare, but he had a dream. He shakes himself. The conversation from days ago stabs back into his memory once again. You’re just business. With an effort, Bilbo rises from his bedroll and takes himself off to handle his business before the others wake.

Time to move.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Gandalf argue about Bilbo's personal choices.

Things are strangely silent around Bilbo Baggins. Wherever he goes, the birds fall silent, the rustling ceases in the undergrowth. The dwarves may not see it, but the animals instinctually recognize Bilbo Baggins as a hunter- the top of the food chain and, while uninterested in the creatures running from him, not to be tempted or tried.

At present, the silence is absent. Bilbo, after all, has to keep his status under wraps, so as he walks behind the group, next to Gandalf (he seems to know exactly what’s gone on) the animals keep going on their focused way.

Gandalf glances at his companion. It’s been a while, so he decides to try his luck. Bilbo, after all, has excellent control over himself. He would not try to kill Gandalf (or at least, not out in the open...). Even if he did try to kill Gandalf, the wizard would not fall. Bilbo may ignore Tharkun for the rest of his life, but, hey, someone has to talk about Bilbo’s unfortunate habit.

“Bilbo.” The hobbits face is kept in a relaxed set; deceptively neutral.

“You can’t keep doing this to Thorin and the Company,” Gandalf can practically taste the anger coursing through the dragon’s veins (still upset about his house, then.), but he can’t back out now. Wizards don’t back out when there is something that needs to be done.

“One of these days, this habit of burning bridges is going to be the death of you.” Gandalf keeps his voice pleasant.

“I’m a dragon. Everything burns.”

“Literally. And since you haven’t toasted any of the company, I dare say that doesn’t matter in this context.”

“I dare say I don’t care.”

“If you’d let someone in, you wouldn’t be so lonely.” Gandalf knows. He’s a wizard, he doesn’t have the luxury of letting mortals in. That doesn’t mean Bilbo’s in the same boat.

“I’m destructive by nature. Lonely comes with the deal.”

“Bullshit.” He doesn’t usually cuss, but anyone who knows Bilbo knows that an argument is the way to go. Judging by the fact that Bilbo is responding, he’d say he’s getting somewhere.

“Is not.”

“Don’t illusion yourself. The nature of your work does not prevent you from loving of any kind.”

“That’s not what Archymedes thinks.”

“You haven’t seen Archymedes in years. Don’t act like you know his heart when you don’t even know your own.”

“I know my own, and even if I didn’t, introspection never was easy.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“It’s harder than getting rid of you.”

“I get rid of me all the time.”

“Yes. You and you alone. For the rest of us, you’re mostly a pain in the ass.”

“You know what they say about pain and gain.”

“You know what they say about leaving me alone.”

“Actually, I couldn’t care less about leaving you alone.”

“That’s my point- I can’t get rid of you.”

“Fifty years, I left you alone.”

“By nothing I’ve done.”

“Your need of solitude is what I left for.”

“What I needed was for you to not mess with my smial.”

“Your smial’s fine.”

“Yeah, until someone figures it out.”

“Who are you so afraid of?”

“No one.”

“Yea, right. You’re thinking about someone, and you’re not going to leave it alone until you deal with whatever it is you think you have to do. Then, you’ll going to go back to leaving a lonely bachelor.”

“I’m fine with being a lonely bachelor.”

“It’ll kill you one day.”

“Oh, goody!”

“What do you think Thorin’s going to do when he realizes that you’ve lied to him.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what Thorin’s going to do.”

“Yes, you do, you just don’t want him hurt.”

“So? The end result is the same.”

“Yeah, with me losing one of my friends over pride.”

“It’s not about pride.

“Then what’s it about, Master Pigheaded?”

“I destroy everything. No need for anyone to get dragged into that.” The shear amount of utter self-loathing in Bilbo’s voice saddened Gandalf to no end.

“You haven’t destroyed me.”

“You don’t count. It would take two Balrogs to destroy you.” He has a point. Nevertheless, he’s still wrong.

“Just because you care doesn’t mean they’ll die.”

“Actually, it does.”

“Says what?”

“Pattern, for one, and the fact that I haven’t changed in the important places, for another.”

“You’re selling yourself short.”

“Good. I don’t wish to be taken as anything other than a sodding bastard. No one likes those.”

“You do realize that if a Raiser* came to Erebor or the Blue Mountains, who you choose to care about wouldn’t make a difference?”

“The idea that I do care would significantly increase their odds of meeting a Raiser.”

“It wouldn’t. Would.”

“It-”

“Bilbo! You’re on scout duty!” Thorin shouts from the front of the line. Gandalf, on seeing his chance slip away, decides to let Bilbo go. After all, if the dragon-turned-hobbit wasn’t going to do anything to repair and maintain his friendship with Thorin and company, he’d just have to do it.

He’s a wizard. He meddles. It’s part of the trade. If Bilbo hasn’t guessed that by now, that’s on him. As Bilbo moves off, Gandalf lays a hand on an immediately stiff shoulder.

"Why do you do this to yourself? Don't give me that hook and reel about your job." Bilbo looks at him, pain in his eyes.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

…

That evening, Bilbo sits up, on guard duty for the middle watch. Thorin, not quite trusting his apparent not-friend, is awake two.

For a long while, the two of them just breathe together in the moonless night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry it's late! Got myself grounded but I'm back now!


	6. Bloodless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oin is injured, and Thorin has doubts.

Peace, Bilbo has learned, is a fickle bastard. Well, most things are fickle bastards, but no one (except orcs…) gets tired of peace. You can’t just gain it, and let that be the end. It’s not a mountainous thing- forever and unchanging. Peace, Bilbo has learned, is no more still than the harvest. If you want it, you have to work for it. Then you have to work for it again. And again.

Like Bilbo’s learned, it’s a fickle thing. Bilbo hasn’t been at peace for a long while. It’s his fault, too. He pushed Thorin away, despite the prospect of friendship. He’s unapproachable to the vast majority of the company, and he’s Gandalf’s current object of scrutiny. No, he’s not at peace, but he’d take all that and more, to avoid what happens next.

They’ve reached another warded area. This one has a river. Rivers equal baths. Baths are not one of Bilbo’s favorite things. He likes being clean well enough, but baths require water. River water, in the evening time, is cold as fuck. As a rule, though, he waits until he’s not needed, then heads to the river. He’ll not waste time. The sooner he gets this over with, the better for him it will be.

He’s hip deep in the river, and bending down to scoop up a handful of pebbles, when he hears it. Well, “hear” isn’t necessarily accurate, but it’s the best he’s got. His head snaps up and stares off into the direction in question. It’s further down the river than he is.

Dwalin, already stripped to the waist, takes his hands off his belt to watch. Bilbo might be a little shit most for the time, but over the course of this journey, Dwalin has learned to watch him. He’s accurate and reliable when it comes to danger. Right now he’s watching the forest like prey on the verge of deciding it’s being hunted.

“Dwalin!” He barks, and then the two of them are running, Bilbo already shifting as they come to the very edge of the warded area (supposedly. Dwalin has no idea what the edge feels like…), and there is Oin, standing a foot away from safety, just looking at a medicinal plant (at least, Dwalin thinks it’s medicinal. He is a healer, after all.).

“Oin!” Dwalin bellows, because he knows that something’s about to happen. Then Oin, who’s standing on the edge of the steep river bank, is grasped round the calf by a clawed, scarred hand, and is pulled into the river.

Bilbo wastes no time diving in after him. By the time Dwalin gets close enough, the two are gone. He holds up the axe he grabbed on instinct and looks around, watching everything. For a few moments, all is quiet, the gurgling of the river and the bright greenery of the forest lovely and calming.

Five feet down the river, Bilbo and Oin explode out of the water, and with them, orcs that shouldn’t be walking. They smell rank and rancid, their flesh hanging down in places and rotting away in others. Their faces have been smashed in or their limbs cut off.

Some of my enemies raise the dead.

Dwalin understands, now, what he meant. These orcs were clearly expired beyond what their lives should support, but here they were, half decomposed, grappling with a feral looking Bilbo Baggins.

Dwalin charges forwards and cuts the head off one just as Bilbo plants a bare, clawed foot into the soft, vibrant clovers at the edge of the river bank and launches himself towards the edge of the ward. Dwalin, understanding that the orcs are of little importance right now, follows.

He just barely makes it, and then the orcs are upon them, slamming their fists up against a barrier that glows in bursts and strands of sky blue when they touch it. Dwalin doesn’t have time to marvel at it, though, because Bilbo’s shoving Oin into his arms and then taking off. Dwalin follows, easily carrying the old dwarf through the undergrowth.

When they make the clearing where the company is set up, the only ones there are Thorin and Ori; the rest have gone of to get their own bathing out of the way. Bilbo directs Dwalin to lay his healer down on a bedroll near the fire.

When the dragon strips the boot from Oin’s leg Dwalin almost stills in shock. The gashes are deep- a quintet of claw marks- and it does not bleed. Dwalin can clearly see where skin ends and muscle and fat begins. Some of the damaged blood vessels are just laying there.

“Hold him still!” Bilbo yells out. Ori, behind him, is ready with the medkit from Bilbo’s pack (not Oin’s, Thorin notes as he takes care to hold tightly to the old healer’s shoulders.) and he watches with frightened, fascinated eyes while Dwalin takes hold of Oin’s lower body.

There’s a beat of utter stillness, and then Bilbo’s gripping Oin’s leg with two strong, clawed hands, gold faintly visible there. Oin arches and thrashes, unable to control himself with the coursing of magic. It lasts all of five seconds, but the surreality of the moment makes it far, far longer.

Suddenly, the wound starts to gush blood, the black magic that disrupted such a thing now annihilated. Bilbo moves upwards, to Oin’s chest, as Ori moves in with Bilbo’s kit, staunching the blood flow, and cleaning as best he can. Bilbo presses a clawed, red hand to Oin’s throat, checking that his pulse is indeed there- it’s not.

“Brace yourself!” Bilbo calls out before he raises both his hands above his hand in a fist, braced to deliver an otherwise deadly blow. The glow of his hands is a little stronger this time as Bilbo brings his hands arching down, slamming solidly into Oin’s chest, causing him to spasm back to life. Accompanied by his frenzied, harried gasps, he just breathes as Ori does his work.

Then it is done. Bilbo’s replacing Ori, who, despite the interruption, managed to stop the bleeding (he’s picked up many practical skills like that). By the time Bibo is done, the others (Fili,Kili, Dori, and Bifur) have returned, and they all seem to be at least a little bit embarrassed. Thorin doesn’t know why.

He looks at Bilbo, and immediately looks away again. That’s why. Dwarves are not shy by nature, and they usually don’t get embarrassed easily, but Bilbo, crouched ass naked over Oin, wrapping his leg in bandages, is definitely a special case.

Ruby red skin covers him from head to toe. Small patches of scales accent his spine, ribs, hips, and shoulder blades. A thick, spiked tale continues where everyone elses’ spines stop. It has been lashing from side to side in agitation entire time, and bat-like wings fluttered against his back in the same way. The wings themselves were purple around the bones and faded to red in the wide expanses of skin. The horns the Company had gotten a glimpse of with the trolls arched proudly out of his head. He was covered in scars- the mark of dozens of fights, and not an inch of him was in any way covered, because he’d been waist deep in water at the time he sensed the orcs. his feet were large and had two claws in the front, and one in the back, and the nails of his hands were longer and ended in points. The canines in his mouth were one and a third times their regular length, and his eyes were the molten gold of a dragon.

Thorin had seen him take all of his clothes for a wash, so he doesn’t have anything to wear, either. Thorin turns to his pack and unearths a clean shirt and tosses it to Bilbo.

“Master Baggins.” The hobbit looks at the shirt, and then at everyone decidedly not looking at him, and pulls it over his head.

“My thanks.”

“Right.” Thorin says, doing an excellent impression of “not bothered.” Bilbo moves his pack next to where Oin is now sleeping and sits. It doesn’t look like he’ll be moving for the rest of the night. Fili and Kili look at each other.

“Uh, Bilbo? Aren’t you going to get your clothes?” Bilbo looks up, a moment of confusion crossing his face before it clears.

“Oin could stop breathing at any moment. If that happens, the seconds between when he stops and when I do something about it are critical.

“How long does this last?” Gloin says, clearly worried for his older brother.

“Until he wakes.”

“Is there anything else we’re supposed to know?”

“Yeah. When he wakes, he may or may not lose the temporary use of one or more of his senses.”

“Temporary?”

“The most I’ve seen for a dwarf is three weeks. Not only that, but Oin is old. He’ll bounce back from magic better than most.” Gloin picks up Oin’s boot and looks at the gashes.

“I… I can probably do something about that.” Oris says. With a grateful nod, Gloin hands it over.

Thorin, watching Bilbo, can see that the dragon is wound tight as a drum skin. He wonders how much of their earlier conversation Bilbo actually meant.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!! Getting to the feels part of this story! (Maybe not next chapter, but soon!)


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, because I went to post and realized that I hadn't written a chapter. Genuis, I know.

[ ](http://imgur.com/lOU6vsl)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been grounded, so posting will be sketchy until further notice. Other than that, enjoy.


	8. Watyr Nymphs and New Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo begins to explain chess as he carves the queen for a set. Then he disappears.

Ori knows, really, that they aren’t friends. But, despite this oh-so-obvious fact, Ori can’t help but notice that, out of everyone, it is he that Bilbo will sit by. Not friends, no, but something close.

He steals another glance at Bilbo. The hobbit (dragon? It’s still hard to believe, even though he was right above that head being shoved into the fire.) is sitting quietly, legs crossed, small knife in his hand. Randomly, the muscles bunch and relax; a sure sign that Bilbo is, indeed doing something with that piece of wood he picked up earlier.

His head is bowed, but Ori has no doubt that Bilbo knows he’s watching, so he leans a little closer to see what he’s carving.

“It’s a game piece.” Ori jumps.

“For what game?” Bilbo sets down the half finished piece in front of the both of them, on the soft, dark earth. Above them, the sky pisses on them all, turning Bilbo and a good number of the company into sour wretches. The grey air and sky, however, accentuate the green of the forest they camp in. It’s so vibrant just now, at an hour before sunset, that the foliage and undergrowth around their little clearing seems more dreamscape than anything.

Among the enchanted-like background, the tan game piece seems magical as well. The bottom half is a solid hunk of wood. The top half, however, is halfway to lovely. A face and head have been etched out of unyielding wood, and a long, half completed flow of hair falls past the delicate chest, ribs and stomach to disappear into the unworked wood below. A regal neck is partially hidden by a stray wooden strand that falls in front of the shoulder, rather than behind.

A tiny hand has been shoved into said hair, as though the figure is in the act of moving it away from her face. And what a proud face it is. The nose is long and delicate, and the chin, cheeks, and forehead are all sharply defined but somehow soft. The mouth is full, and appears partially open.

The clothing (what has been carved, that is), is flowing and semi-loose. From what Ori can see, it’s a tunic. The neck hole is wide and round, showing off collarbones. The fabric is wrinkleless where it rests against ample breasts, but as it falls over the stomach the opposite is true. The sleeves are short; almost nonexistence, and are the embodiment of a soft sigh. There’s a carved torque around the upper arm, another around the only carved wrist.

The strangest of all, though, are the delicate horns that curve out of the top of the woman’s forehead, in the way that Bilbo’s does. To compliment these are two semi-folded bat wings, stretching to slightly higher than the horns and then descending into the bottom half, disappearing there like a wraith.

All in all, the figurine before him looks wild, half-tamed, and contains a delicate strength. Ori leans closer. He wants to pick it up and feel the almost smooth work. He doesn’t dare though. It is, after all, raining. Bilbo, like most of the company, is a sodding bastard when it rains. So he just sticks to questions.

“What game?”

“It’s a chess piece. The queen.”

“What’s chess?” Bilbo smiles softly, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Chess is a strategy game. The queen is the strongest- and indeed, the most sought after- piece on the board.”

“What board?”

“It’s a board of squares, arranged in an eight by eight pattern of two alternating colors, with a total of sixty four squares.”

“Can you tell me more about it?” Ori is now completely enraptured by this game. He knows a lot of games. He’s heard about a lot of games. He’s never, however, encountered this “chess” before.

“Yes, but it may be hard for you to understand without a board or pieces.” Ori smirked at Bilbo.

“I’ve a good head for this sort of thing.” Bilbo returns the expression and begins.

“Chess is a game played between two people. There are sixteen pieces per side: eight pawns, two rooks, two knights, two bishops, a king and-” here, he picks up the carving and begins to work it once more- “a queen. The object of the game is to put the king in check so that he has no place to move to safety. You do that by moving the pieces assigned to you.”

“Each piece has their own individual rules for moving. The rules apply to every piece of that kind. A few of the pieces have special moves that can only be executed under certain circumstances.

“The regular moves of the pawns are these: pawns can only move forwards and capture diagonally, each of which can must be done in a single space. One of the special moves is that, on the pawn’s first move, it has the option of moving two spaces forwards, rather than one space forward or diagonally. You cannot move two spaces diagonally or capture by moving forwards.”

Bilbo has, by this time, attracted the attention of the entire company. He has also reached into his satchel and removed pieces that appeared to be roughly half the size of the queen he was working on. They appeared to be children, and they were only clothed in a small piece of cloth wrapped around each set of hips.

They all have short, wild-looking hair. What appeared to be small fins sprouted from their ears, calves, arms, between their fingers and toes, and backs. The eyes are big, noses little bumps, and they have wide, smiling mouths. Sharp, pointed teeth- so like Bilbo’s own, gleam in polished, wooden abandon, as do their pointed, webbed nails. A few are wearing short tunics, but all are barefoot. Three lines mark either side of each little neck. Some of them have bands wrapped around thighs, necks, ankles, wrists and upper arms, along with studs in the aches and lobes of their ears.The only difference between the boys and the girls is that the girls wear full tunics.They stand on rounded bases half an inch thick. They are in various stages of movement, but the eight pieces before Ori are clearly pawns.

“You may touch these ones.” Bilbo’s soft permission comes, and before long, Bilbo’s looking at his carving while the company examines the work of a dragon.

“Why children?” Dwalin grunts. He’s sitting on the other side of Ori, much to the sourness of Dori, and holds the little game piece close to his face, as if he’s trying to determine Bilbo’s logic behind the likenesses.

“They are watyr nymphs, and a great many of them usually go naked, instead of clothed like these.” Bilbo’s soft smile tells Ori that he may have specific nymphs in mind when he carved these ones.

Ori squints his eyes, trying to get a closer look at the already much-too-close pawn.

“Do you know them?” Bilbo’s nose twitches.

“Yes, but it has been quite sometime since I’ve talked to them.”

“Why?” Thorin asks.

“Because they are native to my homeland, and it has been long since I have set foot there. They probably had great fun over it, too. Nymphs- especially watyr nymphs- are reckless and daring and fun-loving. Everything is humorous to them.”

“Why are they the pawns?”

“They are rather weak, until you mess with one. Then every nymph in the country and city are trying to kill you. They generally succeed.” The dry tone of voice is a dead giveaway that these enchanting little creatures aren’t all that innocent.

“Dwalin, first watch. I’ve the second one. Bilbo, the third,” Thorin orders as everyone begins to relinquish their pieces. Bilbo carefully places them back in their space and goes to his bedroll. He’s the first one asleep. Ori can’t help but wonder why he’d make chess pieces when he had no board and nymphs when he hasn’t seen them in- if Bilbo was telling the truth about how long he spent in Hobbiton- at the very least, fifty years.

Thorin, on the other side of the fire, can’t help but wonder what other strange creatures Bilbo knows, and if the unfinished carving Thorin spot a glimpse of is indeed related to Bilbo, as Thorin suspects. Only one way to find out, of course. He’ll have to ask, and he can do it when it’s time to wake Bilbo for his shift. He glances at Bilbo in the shadows, apparently unbothered by the soggy evening, now that he’s in his bedroll and asleep. Thorin wisely follows his example. He does, after all, have to be up in not too long.

…

Halfway through Thorin’s watch, Bilbo rises and slips off into the trees. Thorin, unworried (who doesn’t slip off sometimes?) watches him go, then turns back to the dark to watch for enemies. After all, these areas they camp down in might be warded, but regular orcs won’t have a problem.

Bilbo, though, stays gone. Thorin glances at his men. He needs to find Bilbo, but can’t leave the camp unguarded. Another guard, then. Who would watch the camp and keep mum about Thorin’s (and Bilbo’s) little disappearance? Thorin wakes up Balin as quietly as he can, then he’s following Bilbo, to the place he showed them to be the edge of the ward.

Thorin takes a deep breath and, with Orcrist unsheathed, steps across the boundary, following the nigh on unnoticeable footsteps. He’s going to kill Bilbo when he finds him.

**  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still grounded, but very much at large.


	9. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, because I can't always update, and the chapter isn't finished yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are wondering who this mysterious Archymedes is.

[ ](http://imgur.com/t1D3591)


	10. Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo fight, and the Company meets radagast.

The scene Thorin stumbles upon convinces him, like nothing else, that Bilbo is fully capable of everything he hints at being. Around him are the half rotted band of orcs Dwalin described. All of them are dead, their black blood spattered across the ground, so bright and shiny in the full moon light.

Bilbo is dragging them around so that they all lay in a pile among the trees. While Thorin watches, Bilbo, red skinned and bloody, speaks something in a deep and guttural language. Before the king’s very eyes, the orcs are turning to ashes, blowing away like a soft, playful wind.

“So do you do this stuff all the time or just when everyone would be too late to help you?” Thorin’s dry question startles Bilbo. The dragon turns to glare at Thorin, a smear of blood on his cheek.

“Go away.”

“Are you grown or a child?”

“Shut up.” Bilbo turns to go and suddenly, Thorin is very, very angry. He blocks Bilbo’s path back to the barrier.

“Let me explain something, Master Burglar. You signed a contract to be a part of this Company. This is my company. My company, my rules. And the first rule, as you know and have known, is not to wander off alone.”

“I’m a loner. Wandering is what I do.”

“Well, I guess you won’t sign a contract, next time, then.” Thorin’s flat, sarcastic voice has Bilbo riled right back.

“Did you really expect me to just go ‘oh, it’s perfectly fine that Oin’s back at camp unconscious! I’m not going to do anything about the orcs that may have cost him one or more of his senses!’”

“No! What I expect is that you won’t go about your life so carelessly, you prick!” Thorin’s as loud as he dares to be, just now and so is Bilbo. Thorin can smell the strange orc blood, and it’s making him angrier.   
“Why the fuck do you give a shit about me?!”

“Because you’re part of the Company! As long as you travel with me and mine, you’re one of us.” Thorin does his best to calm himself down. It won’t do to get riled (again) while he’s trying to make a point. 

“You seem to think you can make me.”

“I don’t. You volunteered. Get bathed before you come back to camp. You stink.” Then Thorin is turning and striding off into the dark. For once, it doesn’t end in a draw between them. Thorin’s nearly free and clear when he has to turn back.

“I never should have come.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because everybody dies, around me. I’m a loner for a reason, Oakenshield.”

“Well, I suppose now’s the time to fix that.” Then Thorin is once again turning, and, this time, he doesn’t look back.

…

Radagast is… irritating. At least, he is to Bilbo. To everyone else, he’s just another of Gandalf’s kooky friends (Bilbo’s still mad at Gandalf, if the silence between them is anything to go by). Bilbo stands watching them curiously, head slightly cocked, gaze a little too calculating for anyone’s liking. 

Then Bilbo’s attention is instantly diverted. His head turns at a forty-five degree angle and he throws out a hand. Everyone’s got their eyes upon the plume of smoke that begins to stretch into something like glass. Silence fills a clearing as a face fills the mirror.

The face is sharp and defined, pride in every inch of pale skin and high forehead, cheekbones, and sharp jaw. Curling, tamed black hair reaches beyond the figures shoulders, which are dressed in something silky. The oddest thing about the picture, though, is the slanted, purple eyes. They are orbs that only have room for one focus: Bilbo.

“ , Iam diu est.” It’s been a long time, child. Unsurprisingly, Bilbo actually knows what language is being spoken.

“Im ' non puer.” I’m not a child.

“tamen sicut unum Fugis.” Yet you run away like one.

“Et melior est cor tuum ?” And you think you are better? The figure cocks his head to the side and smiles.

“Ego novi:.” I know it.

“Superbia, et ante ruinam exaltatur .” Pride before a fall, Bilbo says, and it’s not hard to hear the venom in his voice.

“A ante ruinam exaltatur spiritus, paulo mendax .” A haughty spirit before destruction, little liar.

“et quid vis fieri ?” What do you want? Bilbo says, his voice flat and immovable, rather than flat and lifeless.

“Idem diu lorem nunc volo domum.” I want the same thing you’ve wanted for a long time, now. I want you home. Bilbo’s grin suddenly stretches into a feral, sharp thing.

“Bene, quod suus 'iustus nimium mali.” Well, that’s just too bad. Bilbo raises his hand a second time, the tips of his fingers glowing and turning bloody red. Then:

“Ne in aeternum perstablis fili arborum cadere et fortis robore .” Not even the wind runs forever, my son, and even the hardiest of trees fall.

“Qui casus feram , Victor.” The mirror winks out of focus, then disappears entirely. Bilbo lowers his hand and slips on the glove no one saw him take off. For a moment, the silence is utterly crushing and then:

“Who was that, Bilbo?” Thorin says softly, like he’s afraid to crush the gathering seriousness.

“That was my father, Victor.” There’s something sad in Bilbo’s voice, but it’s forgotten when a warg and rider crests the lip of ground above them. Though he’s shot down by Kili, Bilbo realizes that, while he may have been putting most of his attention on the necromancers and their dead, he should have been watching. Someone always is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Victor are speaking latin.


	11. Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company arrives in Rivendell, and Bilbo remembers something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm off grooooooundaaaaaaatiooooooon!

If there’s one thing Bilbo doesn’t like, it’s orcs. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s undead orcs. But the hunt, oh, once the hunt was everything. As his legs punt beneath him, Bilbo feels the excitement pump through his veins, and he lets out a wild laugh, shooting away as they break the cover of the trees and traverse the open plains.

The long golden glass whips around his thighs as he shoots a glance behind him and the pack of orcs swings into his vision and- oh, shit. The eyes of the one in the middle glows like neon lights. Bilbo knows, if he blinks, the eyes will disappear.

Gandalf leads them to an outcropping and… disappears. Well, shit. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo sees Kili turn, arrow cocked. He’s about to shoot the eye of the undead orc, but if he shoots that, the orc will be Raised again, making him doubly powerful. He gets his chance to stop it when a crude spear flies at the dwarf from nowhere.

In less than a second, Bilbo’s bright red wings have flared out from the glamoured slits in the back of his coat. They draw the eyes and attention of the orcs. The sudden resistance helps Bilbo turn on a silver farthing. Before the spear can strike Kili, Bilbo is there, knocking Thorin’s heir ahead of him and forcing him to catch up with the rest of the group.

Gandalf’s asshole head beckons them into the tunnel just in time. Bilbo has to work to keep the grin off his face. That was fun. He wants to do it again. He wants to hunt them all down. Shit! It’s happening again.

Bilbo can feel it welling up in him, pushing him to go back, to finish what he started. It’s telling him to let the blood run red and black and let the flames climb high. It’s telling him to hunt them all down and watch them run. It’s telling him to open up his eyes- really open them- and wreck their minds before he destroys their bodies.

Bilbo’s hands are shaking. This is what he left- this need for blood, this need for the hunt. This is why he left it- because the moment he steps back into it will either be the moment he proves himself stronger than his own will or the moment when he’ll be just like Smaug. Suddenly, Bilbo can’t help but remember.

…

_They’re standing on a beach, the waves lapping and sucking gently on the shore, the light of the moon makes Bilbo- then, he was Ezra- look like something you could break. And you could, if you knew how._

_Ezra’s hand is extended to a man who stands in darkness, and there is no seeing through the shadows to what’s underneath._

_“First- a promise.”_

_“What promise?” He’s wary about promises, Ezra is. His father makes him promise. He promised to be good, the last time he got caught. He promised to be the youngest prince of the von Thorne family, the last time he got caught acting like a wild thing. He broke his promise, coming here, and all for something so very insubstantial._

_“I’ll take you away,” the man says, “I’ll take you to a place you’ve never been and I’ll show you things you don’t have the imagination to think of, let alone hope to know. I’ll teach you everything I can, if you’ll promise me a deed._

_“What’s the deed?” Here the man steps from the shadows and into the moonlight, because he knows he’s got Ezra by the heart now, and this child isn’t going to let it go. He’s this close to adulthood and he doesn’t want what’s in store for him. He’ll follow, but only if the reward seems worth the price._

_“If I lose control, I want you to kill me.” The man’s eyes, a beautiful molten red-gold, do not flinch from Ezra’s own hypnotic purple. It’s the purple of his father and his forefathers._

_“If, or when?” The man towers over Ezra, for all the dragon is six feet tall, in his human form. Their mouths are just inches from each other, and the stranger’s fire mixes with Ezra von Thorne’s deception; the thing that’s branded him an outcaste- a dangerous pet- throughout his life._

_“We’ll know when we get there, won’t we?” Ezra’s eyebrows rise just a little bit._

_“You’ll know. I’ll be picking up the pieces.” Ezra already knows what’s going to happen if he runs off with a stranger to learn things no one should learn. He’s going to get attached, just as he always does to anyone who looks dangerous, but doesn’t strike him too badly. When this man loses it, Ezra will hurt and hurt badly. He’ll ache for decades and decades until he dies from it or something else. Yes, he’ll know, but only when it’s too late._

_To stay, though, is death, because Ezra can’t sit still. He can’t straighten his spine and simply nod to show he’s listening while children he carried and birthed cling to his legs and howl for their father, even though Ezra can’t go to them because he is an indecorus unum- a disgraced one- because the power in him was fine-tuned to deceive. Sooner or later, he will run, he will lash out, he will turn wild and feral. When that happens, all the warnings and effort in the world won’t stop them from breaking the instruments through which he channels his magic- his hands. Then, if he keeps on, they’ll break his feet. They may cut out his tongue, and they may blind him- anything to keep the lies away, all because Ezra’s power is made for lying, and it is unacceptable._

_Stay, and die? Or go, and deal with the pain? Go and do something he was taught never to do? But they teach him he’s an evil boy. They teach him he’s a disgusting creature. How much of what they teach him is more than their own fear?_

_Besides, he’s felt like killing more than enough. When he’s listening to his father read to him- he is not allowed to read, in case he twists the words around to some else’s eyes, so he was never taught- his lot in life and the things he mustn’t do, lest he anger the people, he wants to put claws to his throat._

_He wishes to kill those he passes on the streets- the blessed ones, the free ones, the ones his father tells him not to anger. A dragon’s anger is full and righteous, but a mob of them is cruelty incarnate, in the end. Ezra won’t stand a chance, if he stays._

_“Deal.” Then he’s shaking hands with the stranger whose name he doesn’t know, and the man’s revealing himself. A high forehead and sharp cheekbones house luminous eyes- silver, now that the gold and red have died away for the moment. A full mouth and squared jaw sit below a long, straight, slender nose. A head of black, curly hair, so like Ezra’s own, swishes about his face in the soft breeze. All this is covered by pale, pale skin. He’s wearing all black and a long, leather duster conceals any weapons he might be holding._

_Ezra is instantly mesmerized._

_It’s not because of how beautiful this man in front of him is. It’s because of the hunger there- a kind of leanness you can’t satisfy from flesh. It’s sharp and feral and doesn’t slow down for even its own pleasure. And it has Ezra by the mind, just as the prospect of change has him by the heart._

_Ezra knows, now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this creature is already losing his mind, and he’s really just taking care of business by making a deal with Ezra. He cocks his head to the side, as if something just occurred to him._

_“What’s your name?” the man smiles. It’s a thin, tight smile that betrays the tension of tonight. Despite the clear intelligence in that silver gaze, the man didn’t come here sure of the outcome. Ezra was a gamble._

_“Lock.” A name earned, not one given freely, as Victor is the name Ezra’s father earned._

_“Where do we go now?” Ezra asks, his gaze almost greedily taking in every visible nuance of Lock’s body and face, because he knows he hasn’t long with the dragon. Lock smiles again, and, with Ezra’s hand still held within his, turns to look to the left of the duo._

_“We go where all the unwanted things go.”_

…

Years and years ago, his mentor was on the edge of insanity. Now Bilbo- first Ezra- is in the same exact place. He wonders at the wisdom of going on this quest as they emerge into broad daylight, and, as the elves circle them and the dwarves act like it’s the end of the fucking world, Bilbo catches sight of him.

Elrond’s face doesn’t look like Lock’s but it has that same depth of wisdom, though it’s a calmer wisdom, like a sea at storm and a sea at rest. Bilbo wonders what it would have been like, if Lock wasn’t going mad, if his knowledge didn’t make him run so fast that he lost himself. If Bilbo was his apprentice and not his prodigy. If Bilbo was someone Lock wanted to save and not someone who could do the final deed.

He wonders, and he crushes his wondering, because that’s not the way things went down. It’s not these alternate events that happened. Entertaining these thoughts is a good way to hurt himself.

In this moment, their eyes meet, and the world falls away as Bilbo feels the brush of Elrond's magic over his mind, and things calm down inside him for a while, and the tremors of his idle hands disappear for a while. Bilbo, mute, watches all that goes on around him in an abstract sort of way, because years and years and years after Bilbo promised to kill a man who would teach him the world, the end has begun, and Bilbo can feel it, as surely as Elrond felt the racing aloneness of Bilbo’s mind.

 


	12. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond tells Bilbo how it is, then Bilbo tells Thorin how it is, then Thorin tells Bilbo how it is.

“Why are you here?” Elrond says. Bilbo, having successfully evaded every single person who would have a problem with him going off alone, has made his way to the library. On the strong, wooden table Bilbo’s placed a stack of books in languages he’s not supposed to know. One of Lock’s first orders of business was to teach Bilbo to read and write in the language of ancients.

Bilbo just watches Elrond for a second, like he’s not sure if he should answer that question or start an argument. He settles on something infuriating.

“I have business to take care of.”

“The last time you had “business to take care of” I could smell the orc blood and black magic for years afterwards.”

“My apologies.” Bilbo deadpans. Really, if Elrond thinks he’s really just going to tell him what he’s after-

“Be careful, Ezra. I know you’re slipping.” Elrond says, a touch of kindness and- well, fuck- pity in his voice.

“It’s Bilbo. I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s what Lock said.”

“I know.” The quiet response is not one Bilbo meant to slip out, but it does. Elrond, with all the wisdom of all the years, understands.

“I did wonder why he would choose a prince for an apprentice.”

“I am no prince. Not anymore.” Before Bilbo can move, Elrond, who has since sat down across from Bilbo, reaches over and touches the bare skin at the base of Bilbo’s right pinky.

“Not a prince, by you wear the ring given to you at your birth.” Bilbo tries to move his hand, but the pressure Elrond exerts keeps him from withdrawing. When Bilbo raises his softly angered eyes to Elrond’s face, the elf is looking back at him in understanding.

“You aren’t your mentor or your father, Bilbo.” Suddenly, Bilbo is very, very angry. His lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl.

“Do you think I don’t know that?!” Then, Bilbo is gone- just disappeared into thin air like so much smoke. Elrond sits back. He supposes Lock was right- there is only so much that that one will do, will listen to.

Elrond leaves to let Bilbo get back to his reading. He dearly hopes the dragon knows what he’s doing.

…

“I would have thought you would like Rivendell a bit more,” Thorin is somewhat glad that Bilbo doesn’t, in fact, “like” Rivendell, but still- Bilbo shouldn’t be brooding like everyone else.

“It’s not that I don’t like it, I simply want to leave it.” thorin rolled his eyes.

“Leave it, right. This coming from the person who had a sketch of this very place in a book in his smial.” Bilbo bristles. When had Thorin had time to find that book?

“Ori found it. Rather entranced by it, he was.” the stone bench underneath them is cold to Bilbo, and in the early night non-light, he wraps his arms around himself and tilts his head up to the stars.

“Why do you care?” Thorin glances at him.

“Weeks we’ve been traveling. I make it a point to pick up a few things about each of my company. You wanted to be here, but you’re still itching to leave. What happened?” Thorin’s voice turned a little soft at the end, and Bilbo lowers his head.

“Nothing.”

“Hmm.” Thorin hums and lets the dog lie, for now. He will find out about  what’s gone on while his Bilbo was away. (When had he started thinking of Bilbo as his?)

“Can you tell me about your father?” Bilbo’s thumb has started to rub at the wrist opposite.

“His name is Victor, and in my culture, all dragons have two names- the one they were given, and the one they earn.”

“How did he earn his name?”

“My home is no peaceful place, though peace can exist there, for a short while. My father, like many a dragon in his younger days, was in his second Quarter, and he was the strongest of his age group. His enemy was the son  an indecorus unum- a disgraced one- a halfbreed with the ability to mesmerize and to breath fire.” Bilbo has fallen silent, remembering.

“They fought?”

“Many times. Dozens of times, they locked claws on and above the ground. In those days, it was common for halfbreeds to fight with their perceived betters. Because of their heritage, it was always a gamble to see whether or not they would turn out to be one of the Gifted, or one of the Cursed.”

“How is mesmerism a curse?” Here, Bilbo gives a strained smile.

“Truth is the one rule you can’t annul, in my culture. Mesmerism, shapeshifting, illusion-casting, those are all skills fine-tuned for lying. Any dragon born with these gifts are tightly controlled, and if it doesn’t work, they’re often maimed beyond repair.”

“Is this why you left?”

“Yes. That and other things. But back to the story.” Thorin lets his counterpart’s slip go. He could hound him for an answer later.

“After a long, drawn out blood feud, my father succeeded in besting his enemy, and so earned the name Victor.”

“What happened to the halfbreed?”

“He disappeared, and appeared sometime later, fully equipped to use his gifts- he had no control over the Cursed part of himself, when they originally fought- the feud continued, with my father’s enemy lurking in the shadows, along with many of the escaped halfbreeds who didn’t abandon their Cursed heritage. I saw him once, arcing over the city, almost, but not quite, glorious.” Here, Bilbo’s mouth tightens again, like he’s debating something.

“Thorin?”

“Hmm?” Bilbo turns to face him, and gets caught in Thorin’s eyes. They argued from Bag End to Rivendell, and even though Bilbo did his best to stay away, he’s felt somewhat attached for quite sometime. The look in Thorin’s eyes- the total understanding found there, just steals all the fight out of Bilbo, so he doesn’t fight it when Thorin leans closer and says:

“Did you mean what you said?” He could say yes. He could keep Thorin away from where he could really do damage. He could protect himself, he could protect a man he has long since become infatuated with. Or he could not, and do what he mentor never managed to do.

“No, I am not fit for friendship, though.”

“Why?”

“Because of what I do. It drives me up the wall and I never stop. Being friends with me would be like being friends with a feral dog.” Thorin’s hand holds Bilbo’s jaw in something like tenderness.

“Well, it’s a bit too late to back out now.” Carefully, Thorin kisses Bilbo’s mouth. It’s a mouth that’s had the blood of his enemies in it. It’s a mouth that’s ripped open jugulars without so much as a warning. It’s a mouth that snarls more than it smiles but that’s okay, because Bilbo is someone Thorin can respect.

He’s about to pull back, when Bilbo, quite abruptly, loses the tension on his shoulders, kisses him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I did that right, so let me know!


	13. Bad Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, because there's nothing like a little fluff.

Well, that escalated quickly. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like to the rest of the company when one of the elves got too close to Bilbo and the dragon bared his fangs at him. Looking decidedly Not Happy, Bilbo stalked over to Thorin, sat down, and refused to talk to anyone that even looked a little bit conversation-prone.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t the topic of conversation amongst, like, every elf that walked past. It just means that no one talked to him. Well, except Thorin, which is what gave them away and prompted the dwarves to make a lot of jokes and comments that generally started with something like “They look like they’re having fun”, generally had a rude hand sign in the middle and generally ended in some choice glares on Bilbo’s part, and an actual verbal response on Thorin’s.

In any case, that escalated quickly. That was yesterday morning. Now it’s the ass crack of dawn and Bilbo is preparing to leave along with the dwarves and Thorin is glancing at him across the sea of bodies moving about. 

As they make their way through Rivendell and out into the wilds beyond, Bilbo remains in the back of the company and Thorin remains at the front, as they usually do. Dwalin decides to have a little fun with his king.

“Somehow, I didn’t see that coming.”

“Okay.” Thorin isn’t going to just let Dwalin get to him. It’s Dwalin’s sacred duty to piss him off any time Thorin does anything that is in any way related to going mushy. The same works visa versa. It’s a great tradeoff- sometimes, Thorin has an excuse to hit Dwalin, and, sometimes, Dwalin has an excuse to hit Thorin.

“Do you think he’ll stick around when this is all over?” 

“None of your damn business.”  Of course he won’t , Thorin thinks.  He’s supposed to be out here, tracking down the Raised and the Raisers. He wouldn’t stay with Thorin, no matter how much he might want to. It’s just entirely to cagelike for a man with the tendency to fly.

…

Their days have settled into something like routine. Every morning, the dawn is a call to consciousness, followed by an hour to get packed and eat. They walk all day, and Bilbo scouts high in the sky, usually invisible to his companions. In the evening, he sometimes disappears (Thorin disapproves. The silence between them is icy on these nights) and comes back covered in blood (and has to brave the icy silence of the few company members who have made it past his shields (mainly, Ori, Dori, and Oin)) with a few less enemies to take care of. 

At night, he tends to shift into animals of the large (or small) and furry variety and curls up next to someone and listen to the talk, provided they are in a safe zone. If it’s raining, he makes his bedroll nest-like, turns himself into a mouse, and doesn’t emerge until morning or when it’s his watch time. This is how the company figured out that Bilbo doesn’t like water. At all.

The idea that fifteen people, including a wizard, can make it across Middle Earth without dying of boredom is stupid. What’s really stupid is the fact that Bilbo failed to notice this. This is how, after he returns late in the evening after a “bad” night, as the younger members have taken to calling the times when Bilbo goes and Thorin gets pissy, Fili and Kili hatch a brilliantly idiotic idea.

The animal of the evening is a cat. Everyone knows cats don’t like water. So Bilbo has turned himself into a cat and settled into his bedroll to wait until Thorin is decidedly not mad enough for Bilbo to apologize (again). The evening is slightly cold, and will increase as the sun sets further. The fire is nice, and he is close to it. It crackles and the sounds of it and the company’s quiet, calm conversations provide lovely white noise for Bilbo. He isn’t necessarily awake. Thorin is watching him, because sometimes Bilbo will go twice in one night, and that’s not going to happen today.

Eventually, mother nature calls, and Thorin quickly takes himself off into the woods to have a piss. Dori is sitting with Ori, watching his younger brother draw the fire with remarkable accuracy. Oin has already fallen asleep. It’s just as Thorin comes back, but before his eyes find Bilbo, that a sharp yowl splits the air. Good god, it sounds like someone’s in their death throes. Thorin’s eyes snap to his lover only to see that the cat is gone. A moment later, a big-ass panther is crouching in its place, preparing to kill his two nephews. Well, shit. His nephews have dumped water all over Bilbo. Good god, the dumb-ass things that happen from boredom.

Thorin, Dwalin, and Dori somehow get it in their heads to do the sensible thing: run damage prevention. Thorin’s in front of Bilbo, hands up, palms facing the cat, trying to get him to calm down enough to stop seeing red. Dori and Dwalin have both managed to snag Thorin’s nephews by the collar. 

After a long tense silence where Bilbo is contemplating simply jumping OVER Thorin, he changes into a monkey and goes to hang his clothing up to dry. He’s feeling somewhat uncharitable just now, so this evenings mission has now been changed to completely ignoring the entire company, in favor of making sure his clothing doesn’t smell like standing water in the morning.

Thorin turns to his nephews and marches the three of them off into the woods to have a talk about how bad an idea it is to pour water on a water hating dragon who just happens to have a short fuse on an already bad night. Really, which one of them thought THAT was a good idea?

When he returns, Bilbo is back into a semi human form and has changed into his second set of clothing (his clothing isn’t magical, so it doesn’t go with him when he shifts) and is as close to the fire as he can get. His bedding and wet clothing are hung on branches near the fire. Everyone’s looking at him, trying to gauge whether or not his silence is just-thinking silence or run-the-fuck-away silence. Thorin doesn’t have to think about it. He sits down and lifts an arm. After a few moments, Bilbo is settled underneath it, inside his coat.

“Sorry about that.” He doesn’t make his nephews say sorry, because the last time that happened, Bilbo told them not to do shit like that and proceeded to get his revenge by ignoring them all day. Bilbo doesn’t like apologies. He does, however, like Thorin. After tonight, maybe he needs a bit of a break.

“‘S fine.” Bilbo mumbles. Thorin, apparently, is comfortable. They sit like that until it’s time to sleep, and then Bilbo lies with his back to Thorin’s chest, purring softly through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saturday is now Official Update Day!!


	14. Lights and Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is sour over the whether, and the dwarves learn about Bilbo's culture.

Kili and Fili have realized that it’s in their best interest to avoid Bilbo, who is still sour about the water, which he hates. He’s a dragon, not passive. He doesn’t do water, and he really doesn’t do wet surprises.

Thorin, for his part, and for the part of the rest of the company, is getting a kick out of watching the two princes deal with someone they can’t just prank, apologize, and move on with. It’s fucking hilarious, really.

The group moves as quickly as possible, with Bilbo sometimes disappearing still, but not as much as he used to, as though they are gaining distance. Thorin asks him about it.

“We are.”

“We aren’t moving any faster than usual.”

“Yes, but I’m doing more damage.”

“Why?”

“Collateral damage.” Thorin doesn’t ask what he means, because that’s one of those answers that isn’t going to get more specific.

“All right,” Thorin humms quietly at Bilbo. They sit together, just content to be in eachother’s company. This, Thorin realizes, is what’s worth protecting. This is why being him is worth it. Right now, Fili and Kili are running around, and Ori is sketching. Dori and Nori are talking. Everyone else is occupied with various tasks. It’s nice, this little bit of peace. It’s what Thorin needs to be able to give the people he loves.

Dwalin, from where he watches by the fire, wonders if the two of them will stay like this- going round and round but still content to be together- or if one or both of them will wind up dead before they get the chance.

…

After a week of straight rain, with Bilbo quieter as he’s ever again and a good deal more pissed off than usual, the sun peaks out between the clouds. They’re trekking through forest today, so, at first, no one realizes what’s going on.

Then Bilbo’s blood red wings snap out, close on the tail of his coat slipping down and off his body, and the dragon launches himself straight up. He somehow avoids snapping his neck on a branch and bursts forth into the light above the trees. With the edge of the forest in sight, the company runs until they can see a bright red and black creature flying around in figure eights, lovely bursts of color bursting from every turn.

Laughter reaches their ears, and it’s as if the foul mood that’s taken the company- Bilbo is contagious- lifts immediately as they watch the displays of light that sometimes morphs into creatures and disappears, only to be replaced by a new color. Sharp fangs gleam and muscles ripple as everyone shares a laugh.

Dwalin elbows Thorin.

“So that’s what you’re fucking.”

“Piss yourself, Dwalin.” He picked that up from Bilbo, because Dwalin has never once heard that phrase come out of Thorin’s mouth. Dwalin can see that the corners of Thorin’s mouth are tilted upwards, and it’s look Dwalin hasn’t seen since they were in Erebor.

When Bilbo lands, Thorin tosses him the coat. For the rest of the day, the going is easier.

…

“Can you show me the light again?” Ori’s found that the most effective way to get what he wants with Bilbo is to simply say it. Right now, with darkness drawing and the smell of rain evaporating and Bilbo feeling nice, he raises a clawed hand.

A burst of lavender light shoots from his hand and bleeds to dark purple fairies that dance on orange flowers around in a circle. The rest of the company have stopped to watch. Bilbo twists his hand and the fairies and flowers blend into a glowing purple silhouette standing in dark mist. The figure bows to Ori and gets bigger. Another misty figure joins him- female, this time- and the two begin to dance around the campfire, whose flames have elongated to a great white and blue bonfire.

The two figures are now chest to chest with less than an inch between them. In tandem, they move back and to the left, then back and to the right. The female turns around and then they’re moving forwards, with her back against his chest and their arms wrapped around the both of them together.

Then they dissolve into a single, smaller man, long hair flying as he does a new dance- one with a lot of flips. This time, the man is red. The man dissolves back into the fae and the flowers, which eventually grow smaller until they disappear. Bilbo lowers his hand, a look on his face.

“What were those dances?” Ori asks into the beats of silence.

“The first was a wedding dance, and the second is the dance performed at one’s Third Quartyr.”

“I’ve heard you mention them, but what’s a Quartyr?”

“In my culture, you only have four important birthdays.” Bilbo’s index finger lifts, and the silhouette of a baby blooms in the air. The baby is swaddled and glows white with a blue blanket. The baby twists and climbs out, getting a bit taller, thinner- a toddler.

“There’s the First Quartyr- when you first start training in weapons or whatever trade you’ll be going into.” The toddler gets taller- they look about as big as the boys Dwalin used to train into warrior dwarves.

“The Second Quartyr- your powers start showing up around here, and you start learning the theory of your abilities. You finish growing halfway through. The child is fully grown here.

“The Third Quartyr is when you finish the last stage of your apprenticeship and go to see a seer, who gives you your second name.” The man disappears, and the light goes away.

“The Fourth Quartyr is when you figure out where you stand- you know, finish your apprenticeship, start really living. I only ever got to my First Quartyr. I was gone by the second.”

“Where did you go?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Bilbo muses quietly.

“Why?”

“Because no one is supposed to know. My mentor once called it ‘where all the unwanted things go.’” Ori understands now- Bilbo is talking about a haven. You don't give away the position of a haven.

“Why did you go?” Fili asks. Neither of them understand how you could just leave your home like that.

“Because, when you present, you’re one of two things. If you’re Gifted, then things go in the way I’ve just described. People love you. They want to train you- teach you how to fly or breathe fire or control air.

“But if you’re Cursed, you get none of that. You stay under the control of your family, marry who they say- if you marry. You don’t learn to read or to use your abilities- a cage until the day you die. Then, you’re buried quietly, and when people bring up your name, it’s to say how glad they are such an evil influence is gone from this world.

“If I ever have children, people will look at them and always see me. These are children I wouldn’t have been allowed to raise, because what I do- the illusions and the shapeshifting- it’s all fine tuned for deception. When something goes wrong, I would have taken the blame for it. The children I would have had would have taken the blame for it, as well.” Bilbo looks to Thorin’s nephews.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to. I left because I had to. It’s funny, really, because I’ve never been to see a seer for my second name, and, if I had stayed, I never would have been to one either.”

“Do you ever want to go back?” Thorin asks. Bilbo can tell he’s a bit wary of the answer- he wouldn’t be able to follow.

“All the time. I won’t though, because, if I do, it will be to start a war.”

The company is silent. Trust Bilbo to swing from cranky to ecstatic to morose in the space of an hour.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late, guys. Had a bit of a problem Saturday.


	15. Patterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds himself following the patterns of his mentor.

They are just outside the Misty Mountains, traversing hilly lands, when Bilbo looks up, his skin blooming a red warning. The company is instantly alert as Bilbo shifts closer to his dragon form. Then, a few hills away, orcs crest the bumpy horizon. Thorin already knows what Bilbo will do.

Before the dragon can take off, a big, calloused hand clamps down on his hair.

“Stay here.”

“But they’ve been Raised.”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” Then Thorin lets him go and draws his sword.

“Defensive position!” He hollers out. Two rings- the inner one has Kili, Ori, and Nori, who all do better at throwing. On the outside is the rest, who are better at hand to hand to hand combat.

“Hold!” They watch as the swarm runs down the hill, up another and-

“Fire!” Arrows, little knives, stones laced with poison (it’s Bilbo’s poison) hits the front runners three at a time and the rounds go off like a seizure. The downed orcs trip up the running ones and- there he is. Bilbo spares him a glance. He’ll deal with him later for now-

“Hold!”   
The orcs begin to navigate the dip and Bilbo casts the illusion that there’s a pit. The orcs start and stumble.

“Fire!” The pit won’t keep them forever. Bilbo removes two of his knives and holds them upside down in his hands.

“Hold!” The orcs have figured out the pit and are now running over the illusion. Bilbo’s fangs elongate, his horns materialize on his forehead, his nails extend into claws.

“Charge!” Bilbo breaks the circle first, rushing down the hill in deadly intent.

Let the blood run black. He-

_Lock stands behind him, surveying his work._

_“Nice. You’re learning quickly.”_

_“Can we go now?” They have other orcs to catch. They have other Raisers to kill. They have-_

_Lock gives him a look, then produces a small, leather journal from inside his coat. He hands it to him._

_“Read this, then ask me that question.” Lock sets about doing something with the bodies, and Bilbo finds a tree to keep watch from and begins to read. The very first page has a poem on it._

__

_Let the blood run red_

_Straight to the head_

_Push you farther from your mind_

_Let the blood run red_

_Drip down your legs_

_Make you run far too fast_

_Oh let the blood run_

_Oh let the blood run_

_Black is the look_

_I see in your eyes_

_Black is the fate_

_Sewn by their cries_

_Black is the promise_

_Black turns your heart_

_Oh let the blood run_

_Oh let the blood run_

_Let the blood run black_

__

_Ezra immediately knows that Lock wants him to control himself. He realizes, right then, that he’s following the same road as his mentor- slated for death at an early age, and yet_ -

-can’t stop slicing and slashing. His people are all around him. He really can’t stop. He can feel something inside him pushing him on. Something is in the back of his mind, telling him to go ahead and do it.

LetthebloodrunletthebloodrunletthebloodrunLETTHEBLOODRUNLETTHEBLOODRUNLETTHEBLOODRUN-

There is no one else to kill.

Bilbo looks down at himself. He is coated in sticky black blood. He looks around himself. His people are uninjured. He’s not. Quickly, Bilbo glamours it over. He has to finish his work here, because if he doesn’t, all is lost. There is no one who can take the poison out, now, so he’ll just have to hope Beorn is ready to receive an almost dead hunter.

Bilbo looks down at the body at his feet, and does the thing Lock taught him to do years ago.

“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.” He touches the body, whose blood is all over Bilbo’s boots, and the creature dissolves into ashes and dust. He goes to the next body, reaches down, and repeats. He keeps going until he reaches the last body- the first to fall. On the way, he collects all the knives Nori threw and all the arrows Kili shot and all the stones Ori flung. They will need them.

When he’s done, he trudges back to the company, who understood that Bilbo needed time alone. He hands over his findings. He feels worn and drawn and tired. He lost control again. He knows better. He always has. He can’t loose control because one of these days, control won’t be coming back.  
Bilbo turns to watch the drawing sun, knowing that no orcs would come for them tonight.

“I know where a river is.” He says to Thorin.

“Lead, then.” High on victory, the company follows Bilbo as the dragon shows them where they can camp for the night. The dragon doesn’t bother with his clothes until he’s submerged deep in icy penance. He should never have lost control. Only once the black blood has washed away does Bilbo strip and lay his things out to dry.

On the other side of the fire, Thorin watches him, all too aware of Bilbo’s change in attitude. Something is wrong, and Thorin’s going to find out what.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Saturday update, guys. I don't think it will come at all, next week. Sorry.


	16. Archemydes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wear and tear begin to show on Bilbo, the Company meets Archemydes, and he has things to say.

Bilbo is sick. He doesn’t show it, but Thorin knows it. He’s grumpy when it’s bright and decidedly not damp or wet outside. He’s not content to just walk, the way he usually is on the quiet days. He’s not content to be happy, even though Bilbo is always content to be happy in the time he has before he must deal with something else.

They’ve reached the foot of the Misty Mountains and are camped on one of the last hills left. They are, at this point, exceptionally tall hills. Bilbo won’t settle down (he hasn’t settled all day) and he seems exhausted.

“Bilbo.” Thorin says flatly. He doesn’t like being lied to, and if he’s right, Bilbo’s neck deep in a pile of shit right now.

“What?” The snappish tone of voice has Thorin glaring. If he’s not going to do this the easy way, then…

With the entire company watching the two of them (They never do this) Thorin raises his chin and looks Bilbo straight in the eyes before he says-

“Were you injured in yesterday’s battle or sometime before?” Bilbo opens his mouth to speak but he doesn’t get the chance.

“Yesterday, I’m guessing. Of course, I really wouldn’t know since everyone’s favorite asshole has a problem with asking people for help,” A pleasant, very mesmeric voice answers from outside the ring of light. The company is on their feet in an instant, weapons drawn. Bilbo does no such thing.

He turns and regards a spot outside the circle that the voice clearly did not come from.

“Archemydes.” A figure steps forwards and, before anyone realizes what’s going on, pops Bilbo in the jaw. Hard. 

Other than Bilbo’s head snapping to the side, he doesn’t move. Carefully, he lifts a hand and carefully touches his hand to his cheek.

“I know I deserved that, but would you mind telling me why?” Archemydes glares.

“You vanish in the middle of the night. I don’t find you for fifty years. When I do, you’ve got every enemy you ever made crawling out of the woodwork and up your ass. You’re about to go into the Misty Mountains without the proper gear AND you’re injured. The punch was for that last one. Everything else, however, you still owe me for. Now sit down before I decide to hurt you.”

Archemydes is tall- six something, by the looks of it. He’s got the leaf like ears of a hobbit, but that’s about all he’s got. Everything else is pure exotic- tall and wiry but big in the shoulders with a covering of ebony skin and a wide, gently shaped nose (it started out gently. Now it’s kind of crooked, since he broke it. Twice.)

His eyes though- now that’s what’s given him away. His eyes are a deep black with glowing amber striations. He’s also a bit pissed right now. He keeps glaring at Bilbo with- Dwalin’s noticed (along with the rest of the company)- the same look Thorin gives Bilbo when Bilbo’s toeing the line between a welcomed dragon and an ignored dragon.

Bilbo does that thing he does when he decides whether or not he wants to get messy with something. He apparently decides that the answer is no, he doesn’t want to argue with the decidedly not tired, pissed off, perfectly healthy dragon and takes a seat. He shrugs out of his coat and his tunic to let Archemydes get at the injury.

Thorin takes one look at the cut and goes from mildly amused to mildly murderous. It’s maybe four or five inches long, across where shoulder muscles meet arm muscles, and about an inch deep. There is no blood. The black poison has already made it halfway down the arm to the elbow and covered the entire shoulder.

“You couldn’t have said anything?” Bilbo ducks his head. He doesn’t like lying to Thorin but-

“There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

“Great. Let me be the judge of that.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Clearly.” Bilbo’s mouth tightens and he looks down. Definitely guilt there.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are trying to die,” Archemydes observes loud enough for everyone to hear him. Having Thirteen not-happy glances on him (Gandalf is, once again, busy and absent) is not the way Bilbo wants to end his evening, so he responds.

“I don’t want to die.”

“You could have called.”

“Everybody and their mamas wants to kill me. Does it look like I can afford to “call” you right now?” Bilbo might not be fighting Archemydes, but he’ll not be quiet either.

“Yes. If you value your health, anyways. Now, sit down before I hurt you.” They glare at each other for a minute before Bilbo takes a seat next to the fire and slides out of his coat, apparently giving up.

Archemydes sits next to him, and Thorin on his other side.

“Damn, Bilbo. Were you paying attention?” Bilbo’s let the glamour drop. The poison’s spread far and fast, quickly.

“It’s stronger than I thought.”

“I thought you knew not to trust your judgement.”

“It’s not like I had anyone else’s.” Bilbo mumbles. He’s feeling sleepy right now…

…

 

“Will he be all right?”

“Yeah. He bounces back fairly quickly.” Archemydes says quietly. After Archemydes finished with Bilbo’s arm, the dragon had quickly fallen asleep.

“He can’t heal himself, you know,” Archemydes says quietly.

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s the one thing he needs someone else for- to fix himself.”

“Yeah.” Thorin looks up at the sky, wondering which of Bilbo’s enemies were closing in on them now. He sees nothing, and it’s late. As the rest of the Company heads for their bedrolls, Thorin does, too. It’s Dwalin’s watch, tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long.


	17. The Problem With Lying.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is given a painful reminder, courtesy of the entire company, and a gift, courtesy of Archemydes.

Bilbo blinks. His head feels like cotton, as does his mouth. He knows he dreamed, but remembers nothing. Hmm. He must have slept deeply. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept deep enough to not remember his dreams. It’s not a good habit to find in a man with the tendency to get into fights and get pursued and kill ugly bastards in the blink of an eye, never mind the time of day.

Bilbo takes a moment, waiting for his head to clear. He can hear sounds beyond his… what? He never got to his bedroll, Bilbo knows. Eh. He’ll figure it out in a moment. For now, he can hear the low hum of conversation, the clinking of metal on metal, the rough drag of wood and stone. The crackle of a fire becomes evident next, as does more voices. The rustle of trees is absent. Oh, yes. The Misty Mountains. Now he remembers.

Bilbo sits up, suddenly feeling alert because food. Mmm he can smell it now. He really wants some, because he’s suddenly starving. He stands and, in a series of movements, rolls his bedroll and holds it in his (red. Why? He doesn’t know.) hands, looking around. He knows where everyone is. That’s good. Oh, yeah. He was injured. He forgot.

Where’s Archymedes? Probably waiting for him to realize he’s somewhere around here. Either that, or he’s already left. He pulls in a deep breath, nostrils flaring in the short time he has before someone actually notices he’s awake. Not here… but he did leave a gift.

Bilbo takes himself around the edge of the camp, deliberately glamouring himself invisible so that he can not be disturbed. He reaches down to his satchel, which apparently spent the night with Thorin and… well, then.

He apparently owes Archymedes. In his satchel (his mostly empty satchel) is a mass of fabric. A special kind of fabric. And it’s actually his. He had to leave it behind when he disappeared, because it was too easy to track. Bilbo quickly strips himself of all his clothing and lifts the fabric to set down on his (horned? Damn, he must have been really out of it) head. It immediately shapes itself into a set of clothing.

When it’s done in a matter of moments, Bilbo is wearing a tunic, dickey, tabbard, belt, and sash under a clock with a large hood. This, this is what he’s been missing, Bilbo thinks as he feels the magic settle against his skin. He’s been missing shapeshifting.

The fabric is designed to allow shapeshifters to shift without worrying about losing their clothing or anything they’re carrying. It’s also one of the rarest materials Bilbo’s ever seen, simply because shapeshifting is a Curse, and Curses should not be aided. He smirks. Aid this, mother fuckers.

Bilbo allows his glamour to drop as he walks up to the fire. In turn, everyone else gives him no less than a curious glance. He gets particularly Not Happy faces from Ori, Dori, Fili, Kili, and Thorin.

“Good morning,” Bilbo says evenly. Thorin’s lips purse.

“Let me explain something: do not. Lie to me.” He says in a cold voice. Bilbo has the sense to look guilty and feel the same.

“Move out. We’re running late.” Aren’t we all, Bilbo thinks. Aren’t we all.

They take the route they were supposed to have taken an hour ago. Bilbo hangs in the back, not quite willing to go and mesh with people who seem to have realized that he doesn’t take the best care of himself.

All throughout the day, Bilbo walked near the back. Towards the middle of the day, Gandalf joined them and, on picking up on the obvious problem between Bilbo and everyone else (he caught the phrase “he’s your lover!” from Dwalin) he goes to walk with everyone’s favorite cranky traveler.

“So, then.” Gandalf says cheerily. Bilbo’s shoulder’s hunch more than they already are and he ducks his head. It’s not guilt though; he doesn’t look away from the dwarves. In fact, it looks like annoyance. And Gandalf hasn’t even gotten started.

“I heard you had a visit from Archymedes.” He rolls his eyes. Of course Gandalf would know about Archymedes.

“I’m not talking about this,” Bilbo says.

“Sounds like it didn’t turn out well,” Gandalf says, gesturing at the Company, who are STILL giving him disapproving looks.

“Not. Talking.”

“Oh, I know. I just think it’s interesting that your former lover and Thorin Oakenshield managed to shake hands over you and yet you can’t bring yourself to look at him, let alone go up to him.” Bilbo’s new coat ruffles without the wind’s help. His wings materialized when he bristled.

“We’re done, here.” Bilbo refuses to say anything else, so Gandalf settles for the parting shot.

“He is a good man, you know.” Bilbo can’t figure out if he’s talking about Archymedes or Thorin. He ignores Gandalf for the rest of the day.

…

By evening time, Thorin is missing sitting next to Bilbo, and Bilbo is missing sitting next to Thorin. He finds himself at a loss, because the only one not voicing their discontent is Gandalf, and he’s not sitting with Gandalf.

Bilbo takes out his carving and knife picks up where he left off. He finished the queen some time ago and began the bishop. Presently, by the light of the fire, he pulls out a short, handmade pipe from his satchel, stuffs it, lights it, and takes a pull of it. Then he goes back to carving.

The entire time, Bilbo is painfully aware of everyone’s stares. Damn. He forgot how much of a bitch this was.

 


	18. Cold of Hand, Cold of Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo hesitates.

Bilbo is, once again, reminded that he is, in fact, a different breed of dragon. In fact, he’s not only part of the hated portion of his species, but he also can’t breathe fire. This means that Bilbo also happens to run at a much lower temperature than his fire breathing older brother and his energy throwing father because he doesn’t have said fire. All this to say, he’s freezing his ass off, because they’re sky high in the Misty Mountains, in the middle of a snowstorm, and he has no way to keep warm, god dammit.

The frost bites at his exposed face, turning his cheeks and nose bright red even through his heavy scarf and fur lined hood. He’s really not made for winter or water, which is what sleet is- a malicious combination of two. Bilbo reminds himself to not be so hysterical over the fact that he’s basically walking through a flying ocean with thirteen dwarves who refuse to talk to him because Bilbo refuses to apologize.

Gandalf had more business to take care of a couple days ago and so HE gets to skip the fucking snow and the ice and… well, the silence. Actually, he’d skip that anyway and- FOCUS.

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts. He’s a few feet away, but with all the wind, neither of them can hear well.

“What!?”

“Is there something out there?” Is there? Bilbo listens, and then he hears it- a rumbling. Bilbo turns on the spot and throws back his hood, exposing the rest of his head to the sleet so that he can get a better feel for what’s out there. Oh no not-

“ROCK GIANTS!!” Bilbo calls out, and then the whole of the company is running as the whooshing, slow, deadly movements materialize as the big ass mother fuckers that Bilbo has run into twice before and both times, he HATES them. Good god, the fuckers are irritating.

Rocks explode over their heads and several time a member of the company almost falls. Bilbo can feel himself mentally stepping farther away, like he does when it’s time to kill a Raiser. The air moves aside much too quickly.

“INCOMING!!” The dwarves duck just in time as the boulder smashes against the rock wall, which is apparently ANOTHER ROCK GIANT.

Suddenly, a bitter tang explodes in the back of his mouth, and Bilbo immediately stops running and turns to look behind him. A lightning bolt streaks out of the sky, briefly lighting up a figure standing on an oddly unaffected spire of rock. Bilbo recognizes that face. He recognizes that stance.

In an instance, Bilbo has spread his wings and launched himself off the rock, now heedless of the hated weather. It takes him but an instance to reach the rock, stabbing the spot where the little fucker was last. Bilbo looks up to see his wings- dark purple- flair as he folds them, alighting on another chunk of rock. The chunk of rock just happens to be the shoulder of a rock monster. Fuck Fuck FUCK!

Bilbo snarls and twists his cane, which he’s managed to keep track of the entire journey, and pulls on one end to reveal a thin rapier. He goes after the Raiser, trying, and failing once more, to impale him on his sword.

“I’D BE CAREFUL IF I WERE YOU! YOUR FRIENDS ARE IN NEED AT THE MOMENT!” Bilbo can’t help but turn and look as another boulder sends Thorin hurtling off the edge.

Bilbo has two choices- he can go after Thorin, or he can go after one of his enemies and stop the bastard from raising more bodies. It’s the perfect ultimatum. He hesitates for a moment, his job warring with the person he cares for the most.

Then he ascends for a brief moment before dropping in a swift and deadly nose dive. He doesn’t know how deep this void is, but he won’t be stopping until he has Thorin. The dwarrow’s body comes into view. Ahead of them, Bilbo can sense the ground. As it nears, his body begins to rotate so that he’s spinning and falling even faster. Twenty feet above the ground, Bilbo wraps his arms around Thorin and flairs his wings as wide as they go.

They almost stop moving before Bilbo thrusts powerfully downwards, and then they’re going up. The sleet smacks Bilbo and Thorin in their eyes as Bilbo pumps his broad wings and ascend so rapidly that Thorin cannot make out the rock wall they are flying next to.

Bilbo takes a moment to find the rest of the company, who have found a cave. As Bilbo alights at the entrance and sets Thorin down, he quickly turns to look back out at the rain, but his hunter is gone. Dammit… DAMMIT!

Bilbo curses quietly under his breath before the near silence of the cave has him turning around to regard his companions, who are still mad at him from before, except now Dwalin is livid, rather than not happy.

“Who was that?” Bilbo’s mouth tightens.

“I swear to god, if you don’t give a straight answer...” Bilbo smirks after a moment.

“That was Malcolm.” When he doesn’t elaborate on his own, Dwalin snaps.

“Cut the bullshit, dragon. I want to know everything, right now.” Bilbo just watches, eyebrow raised, gaze appraising in the dark and dank cave.

“He is right, Bilbo.” Bilbo’s gaze swings from Thorin to Dwalin, to the rest of the company members. He opens his mouth.”

“Do you even know what you’re asking?” Now Thorin is angry, too, because he’s given Bilbo room to keep his secrets, but he’s going to get them killed at this rate.

“Who is Smaug, and why are you so invested in him? Who is Malcolm, and why has he pursued us? Long story short, Bilbo, is I want to know everything.” Bilbo smiles a sardonic, angry smile. This, what he’s about to do right now, goes against everything he’s been taught. Fuck it all, though, because he actually cares, now, where he didn’t care before. He suddenly remembers how much he’s always hated caring. It gets him into situations like this. Well, if they really want to know…

“Recognize these?” Bilbo’s eyes close for a moment, and when they open once more, the strange, molten color of Smaug’s eyes glare at them in the dark, complete with the triple-diamond pupils.

“I’ll give you a hint: dragons have the same eyes as their mentors do.” My god. All this time, the mentor Bilbo had been speaking of is in fact the killer of hundreds of dwarves and humans, the bane of Thorin’s existence… and Bilbo promised to kill him.

Thorin remembers the night at Bag End, when Bilbo had said he had personal reasons, that he’s a better solution than Thorin could ever hope for.

“Now that that’s out of the way, take a seat, because it’s a heavy story.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just realized that I've had no comments for two chapters. I'd really like to know what you think.


	19. Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo tells the company what they want to hear.

Bilbo takes a minute to look at his hands. The red skin exists in front of him. He gets it from his father. When his thoughts are ordered and he has some idea of the way he wants this conversation to go, he begins.

“To tell you who Smaug is and why I’m here, I’d have to start from long before dwarves were ever in the picture.

“Smaug was… no one, before he was anyone else. He didn’t present until after his Fourth Quartyr had already passed- a full adult, and a forgotten son of a once prominent- and dead- warrior. He wasn’t alone. There was also my father, Victor. He first gave Smaug the name Lock.

“When he did present, it wasn’t until after Victor did, and he was well on his way to being the heir he was meant to be, rather than the one who was passed over. Victor presented as an energy manipulator. Smaug was a powerful shapeshifter and mesmerizer. When he discovered this, he began to practice in silence, fully aware of the way dragons see those who are Cursed.” Bilbo has dropped bits and pieces, here and there, about being Cursed. If there’s one thing the company knows of Bilbo, it’s his culture.

“When Victor found out, he had this… expectation- illusion, really- that if Smaug told the truth”- the concept is more law than characteristic, they had learned when Bilbo first told them why he’s Cursed- “then everything would be okay. He thought that they could continue being friends, as they were before, when neither of them were wanted. He was wrong.

“He didn’t admit that, or let it go, because by telling no one, Victor was lying. When he did let everyone know what Smaug had learned to do, he was imprisoned and kept apart from all others. It was not what Victor had wanted.

“One evening, he broke into the room where Smaug was kept. It was a bad move on his part. He knew about the shapeshifting, but he didn’t know about the mesmerism. Smaug took control for a short amount of time and escaped. He didn’t return for another twenty years. When he finally did come back, he was not the same uncared for, pained creature who left. He had been taken in by a Reaper and trained in the art of hunting down Necromancers, Raisers, and their Raised.

“He was far more dangerous, and back with a vengeance. For years, he and Victor, who was, by then, the patriarch of the Lavender Isles, fought as utter panic reigned among the masses. At some point, he was injured so badly that he completely disappeared again for years.

“When he did come back, I was standing on a beach, trying to convince myself to leave. If I stayed, I’d live out the rest of my life in a cage, having children I wouldn’t have been permitted to raise. But I knew nothing about the world outside of mine. Smaug did.

“On the night we met, he told me that he’d teach me everything he knows, in exchange for his death, if he ever lost it. I agreed. That night was the last time I’ve set foot in my home. It’s been two hundred years. We both knew Smaug was going to lose it- he was past brilliant in everything he did. So far past brilliant, in fact, that he was on the cusp of madness. We… we’d talked about it, some nights. Mostly, it was about what I should do- his weaknesses, things like that.

“There were a handful of people who knew. We thought he’d go after Victor, or something like that. What no one expected was Erebor. I was far past the blue mountains, when Smaug attacked Erebor. The place I was in was swarmed with Necromancers and their ilk, so it took years for word to reach me, as no one could even find me.

“When word reached me, I flew to Erebor to take care of the promise I’d made long ago. When Erebor came in sight, I wondered at the changes. I landed outside the mountain, and I could feel the madness within him. Then I remembered you lot.

“I knew that those of you who had survived were just starting to thrive and not ready for a journey- and that killing Smaug when I was supposed to would most likely deny your rightful home. So I left the mountain without every having entered it.

“The goal was to wait, and I had my own problems to deal with. I’d started to slip. Remembering brought rage, and rage made me lose control. I was getting more violent and uncontrollable by the day. Just like Smaug. So I went to Hobbiton to deal with my own mind, and wait. That was fifty years ago,” Bilbo’s voice dies away and he does not glance up, instead keeping his gaze on his hands. The dwarves sit in silence, waiting. They can practically taste the continuation, just sleeping in Bilbo’s lungs.

“It was seventeen years after I met Smaug that I first caught wind of Magnus. He was another Cursed, and as taken with Necromancing as I was with Reaping. God, was he good. It was what every Raiser ever hopes he or she will be. I’d never come across that kind of skill before, and it floored me. I followed Smaug as he tracked Magnus down and eventually won. Unfortunately, he’d already raised his son, Malcolm, to follow him. Malcolm is as good as his father is, and he’s got a blood feud with me.”

There is so much that he didn’t say- about his father, about Smaug, about Erebor, and about Malcolm, but what he has said is enough for the company. It’s enough to keep them preoccupied. They’re drowning in the information. Bilbo can see it on their faces as each of the dwarves find their gazes wandering.

Bilbo turns his gaze to the outside. The storm- fucking storms- has lifted, leaving the air wet and clear. Bilbo is aware that Ori is freezing where he sits next to him. Carefully, a red wing unfolds from his back and wraps around Ori and, next to him, Dori. On his other side, Fili and Kili have claimed their spots. Thorin, directly across from him, has his gaze pinned to Bilbo, who can’t help but look back. The corners of his mouth pull sadly outwards- a silent forgiveness.

There is, for now, peace in the cave as each of the dwarves get comfortable so that they may think as they sleep. Bilbo himself leaves the watch to someone else tonight and lets his mind wander, rolling outwards and over the mountains, looking, ever looking, for more signs of Malcolm.

The magic in the blasted sword at his waist distracts him gradually, giving him a headache before he realizes what the disturbance is and carefully unhooks the sword and pulls it until a few glowing inches show.

“GOB-!” The floor drops out from under them all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what's wrong with it, but something is. Soooo, if anyone has an idea, please drop me a comment. (Thanks for all the ones from last chapter)


	20. Gollum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo takes a hard knock

Bodies. Bodies everywhere. Thorin feels boxed in and on the verge of being crushed to death as he and his are pushed and pulled, searched, stolen from, and hemmed in until they are standing in front of the Goblin King himself. Thorin raises his face to get a big look at the bulbous son of a bitch.

He starts to speak, but Thorin’s having a hard time listening because Bilbo’s not here. When he realizes he should be doing something, he takes a step forwards: a clear challenge. The Goblin King rises. It is only when Thorin is nearly crushed that he realizes that it’s faster than it looks. Oooh shit.

…

When he wakes up again, his head aches, his body is sore, and it feels like he’s been chewed by a rock giant. He becomes aware of a pair of hands roam over his hair, fondling his ears, ever gentle. It’s nice. Bilbo almost drifts off before it hits him. The floor. The sword. Where the HELL is he?

Not a muscle shifts, though, and Bilbo gradually picks up what words comprise the murmurs and sweet nothings above his head.

“I saves you, yous grateful. Are you grateful, precious? Can you stay? Of course he can stay. But if he doesn’t? Then we makes him. No!” the high pitch of distress is a break in the rhythm, “We musn’t force him. Musn’t force precious. He’s better than the other precious. The other precious isn’t so warm. Shh, it’ll be all rights. I’ll make you likes me. I’ll make you wants me. I’ll make you needs me, so you stay.”

Aware that the skeletal creature his head is laying on is at least partially delusional, Bilbo simply sits up slowly. He groans as the world tilts and shifts.

“Precious! You’re awakes!”

“Not so loud,” he says without realizing it. He feels for an abrasion and- yep, there it is. He must have hit his head on the way down. But where is his company? He can’t focus enough to latch onto their particular auras, so he’ll have to talk himself into some time so that this creature will be quiet and go away long enough for him to concentrate.

He looks up at said creature. Oh, lord. Small and skeletal, grey skinned and blue eyed, Bilbo thinks for a moment that this creature has been Raised, but no, he hasn’t.

“Hullo.”

“Precious,” he whispers. Apparently, he’s still being quiet. Well, if he’s amiable, it’s time to get some questions.

“Where are we?” The creature shifts his spindle legs and Bilbo taps the ground in front of him as an invitation. The creature sits.

“Under Goblin Town, Precious.”

“Who are you?” Glad that Precious is showing an interest in him, the creature smiles.

“I’s Gollum. You’s precious. We’s stay together.” Bilbo looks at him again before lowering his eyes. God, he hates this. He probably has a concussion, which would explain his inability to concentrate.

“How did I get here?”

“You fell. Yous were meant to bes here, so I could haves friend. Precious friend.”

“Gollum?”

“Yes, Precious?”

“How long have you been here?” gollum gives Bilbo another gummy smile.

“Since ages, Precious. You feel nice.” Gollum pushes his bony body forwards and rests his big forehead against one of Bilbo’s legs, clawed hand wrapping around a booted calf. He pushes at Bilbo’s legs until the dragon gives in and sits with them straight out. Gollum moves himself back to Bilbo’s side and curls up in his lap. He is quiet- finally- and the peculiar pressure Bilbo’s been feeling behind his eyes begins to fade.

Bilbo sighs. He doesn’t want this creature touching him, but he has to concentrate, and Gollum is needy. He lays his head back and breathes in and out deeply. He grounds himself to the rock behind him and the rank smell with an undercurrent of spoiled water and rancid flesh. He feels the physical world around him, including the weight of Gollum in his lap.

When the strange aura of this place is more than a little wrapped up in the physicality, Bilbo stretches out, looking for Thorin and the Company. Ah, there they are. A thousand feet above him. Well, shit. He could fly, but he doubts he’ll stay grounded if he takes flight. He glances at Gollum.

The thing is watching him, and the pressure comes back. Oh. Bilbo realizes that the creature has mesmeric crystalline eyes. Oh, god. Okay. These are dwarves he’s trying to get to. The fuckers are stubborn. He can take his time, see what he can do here.

Who is the other “Precious”? Presumably something powerful, with a fair bit of black magic. Bilbo is swimming in the stuff (he’s a reaper). Maybe Bilbo “feels” better than this other “Precious” since he woke up with the undying loyalty of a…

It’s not a man or a goblin. it’s definitely not a child… Bilbo focuses on his aura, feeling until he picks up a thread of… hobbit? The fuck? Okay, okay. He can’t be anything else. Hobbit it is.

So, he has a mesmeric hobbit addicted to black magic sitting in his lap. His company is alive, if somewhat endangered. He has a concussion, so everything must be done carefully. Great. Now, he just needs to figure out who this “Precious” is.

“Gollum?”

“Yes, Precious?”

“Who is the other Precious?”

“He’s not importants.”

“I’d like to meet him,” Bilbo’s voice is so silky soft that Gollum gets up and pads away. He comes back and flips open his hand, a dirty gold ring displayed there. It wreaks of black magic and decay.

Bilbo realizes, as he reaches out and plucks the ring from the palm of Gollum’s wizened hand and holds it up for examination, that there is no helping this hobbit. Bilbo can’t leave him with the ring- an evil entity and transport? Hell, no- but neither can he help him. Gollum curls up in Bilbo’s lap again. The dragon lays two bare hands on the hobbit- one on the ribs and one circles the back of the neck.

“Precious?” Gollum asks as his body relaxes under Bilbo’s gentle grip. This is what you’re supposed to do.

“Yes?”

“Will you stays?” Bilbo rubs at Gollum’s dirty neck with a thumb.

“Of course. Just relax now, Gollum. I’ve got you.” Bilbo’s voice has taken on a second, deeper tone. The double-timbre like rolling thunder and a lullaby at the same time. Gollum, who so willingly placed himself under Bilbo’s spell, doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of resisting the powerful voice of a mesmerist.

“I loves you, Precious.”

“I know, Gollum. I know,” Bilbo feels intensely sad as his red hand forms claws and he digs them into Gollums skinny neck, severing the spinal cord and spilling blood all across the appendage.

He wishes he had time for a grave, but as it is, he’ll have to content himself with a spell. He keeps his hands where they are and begins to mutter a latin phrase for purification. Gollum’s dead body begins to glow through his orifices as the black magic that tainted his mind and infected his body is burned away by the power of a reaper.

“I know,” He says once the ashes of Gollum’s body have lost their shape and crumbled away all over his thighs, “I know, and I’m so sorry.” Gollum was no Necromancer or their Raiser apprentices. He was no creature who should have ever borne Necromancing’s dark mark. He should be in the Shire with faunts running around his meaty, chubby thighs. Bilbo can’t shake the feeling of guilt on his soul.

Bilbo stands, disturbing the ash all over him. With the ring in one hand and ash on the other, he wends his way out through the tightly knit passage of rock to the mountain side. His senses tell him that the Company is safely outside the mountain. He moves carefully, aware that being reckless will unground him. The ring finds a home in a little black box in Bilbo’s satchel- the only bag to make it- as he steps through skinny trees and into a clearing.

“Well, we have no idea where he is right now! For all we know, he could have abandoned us!” Dwalin says quietly to Thorin.

“We can’t just leave him.”

“I know, but we can find a good place to sleep, then find him when we’ve the energy for it. At this rate, we’ll be the dead ones.”

“It’s a good plan. Regardless of where you choose, I’ll be able to find you anyways.” Bilbo says cavalierly as he strolls into view. “By the way, we should get moving anyways, because we have company.” Right then, a howl splits the air, and the Company turns and runs. Bilbo brings up the rear with Gandalf, who looks pretty pissed that they didn’t wait at the foot of the Misty Mountains like they said they would.

“You have some explaining to do.” Gandalf bites out as they speed along.

“So I’m told.” The world is surreal as colors that don’t exist spin and glow at the edges of everything. Bilbo giggles; reality with a side of insanity, anyone?

“You should know… I have a concussion…” Bilbo says. Gandalf sighs. In for a penny. In for a pound.

“Than catch up with Ori.” Bilbo doesn’t fight him. If he gets lucky, he’ll have one short burst of power. Anything else, and he’ll overtax himself and pass out. He needs to save that power.

Somewhere in the mix of all things, there is fire and screaming, there is tree climbing and shouting. Then everything is falling down and Bilbo can’t stop giggling because he’s SEEN this before and isn’t it funny? Marble pillars fall like dominoes and his dwarves are swinging themselves like monkey’s until they’re all gripping the last, collapsed marble pillar.

Bilbo’s giggling endlessly until he looks up and the giggling abruptly stops as it morphs into a wicked snarl. No one touches his Thorin. He spreads wings he forgot he has and launches himself up and back down again, shifting as he goes. The arc of his flight leaves him standing in front of Thorin.

His cane, in his hand, has changed into a wicked scythe- a gift from Archemydes when they were still lovers. He wears very little clothing, now, just a black cloak clasped at the shoulder with a gold plate a series of thin circles leaving ridges all across it. In the center is an eight pointed star. He has no need of them.

Heavy red plates of armor cover almost every inch of his body, and what isn’t armor are scales of different sizes. His hands and feet are more than twice their normal size. What was once the calloused skin of his hands is now covered in tiny scales, with larger ones on the knuckles. Before, his claws were hardened, extended versions of his nailes. Now they’re his actual fingers that taper into wicked points.

His legs are not a hobbit’s or human’s legs anymore. They look reminiscent of a horse or deer. His ankles are thick, scaled things that taper off into four toes, one in the back, and three in the front. They, too, are tipped in wickedly sharp red claws. A thick red tailed swirls and undulates behind him, the tip a sharp upside down heart. Every few moments, spines raise and lower along it, merging along the spinal bone.

His head is less of a surprise but no less deadly. The armor around his neck stops at his hairline. His ears are fin-like and they raise and lower, shifting in the wind, just like his wings. His mouth is fanged- not the smaller version the company has seen before, but an elongated pair on the top, and two more on the bottom. A wild head of curly black hair swings in the winds, the tips purple and yellow.

Then there are his eyes- god, those eyes- tri-diamond pupils and molten lava irises are the centerpieces of red whites. Swirling, geometric designs trace the line of his bones, extending down underneath his armor to manifest itself wherever the armor is not. The armor itself is laced and latticed in grooves and nicks- a testimony to the years Bilbo has spent fighting.

Around him, the air shivers and trembles, swirling and dancing in exalted fear. He seems to radiate dark and light at the same time. His wild, curly hair moves and twists with it. Bilbo’s scythe glows in his hand and he he grins a wild and feral show of teeth.

“Do you always send orcs to do your work!?” He calls out, his double voice no longer soothing but full and raging, undulating in the air as a nigh on separate beast from the lungs that expelled it. He doesn’t have enough power to finish tonight, but he will hold them back and he will buy them time because he is a Reaper and _no one_ touches what is his.

 


	21. Malcolm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Malcolm crash and the dwarves get a bit of an info session.

For a moment, the shadows amass around a specific patch of air. Then Malcolm is there, armor the exact same as Bilbo’s, except his skin is navy blue. He smiles, and the angular planes of his face catch in the fire (when did that get there?)

“Well if it isn’t Lock’s fucktoy, finally grown up and back from the dead.” Bilbo lowers his head and snarls, eyes burning in a dragon’s rage as he flies across the clearing and hits Malcolm full in the chest.

Reaper clashes with Necromancer and black and red blood flies as the orcs attack the prone dwarven king. By now the rest of the dwarves have joined the fray. Battle cries and weapons wink and echo in the night as the two sides battle for supremacy.

Bilbo and Malcolm are face to face and locked in a danse macabre when screeches resound from overhead. Even though the world is spinning, Bilbo dredges enough power to breach a weak plate of armor on Malcolm’s side, splintering it and digging white magic into his body as all his friends are snatched away. Marcus stumbles back and Bilbo sweeps in close.

“I’d finish the job, but I’m a bit low on power, just now. ciao.” Then he flairs his beautiful red wings and flies backwards while Malcolm can only clutch at his side. As Bilbo archs out over the night, he wonders if he can catch a ride on an eagle’s back. They’ve never liked his aura.

As it turns out, they don’t mind. Bilbo takes a moment to rest on a broad back, careful to keep himself carefully calm. He’s getting sick, his world spinning, colors becoming unreal and far too bright. God, he overdid it.

When the eagle lands, Bilbo has difficulty getting to the ground, and he collapses a few yards away from Thorin, watching Gandalf work on his lover as he blinks his eyes and tries not to think that the colors he’s seeing doesn’t exist.

“That’s all I can do for him,” Gandalf says as he turns and urges Bilbo to sit up. The dragon does, and he doesn’t even pretend to resist as Gandalf probes his head and some of his magic flows through him.

God, if feels like a hug. He closes his eyes until he feels grounded again, then opens them again. Gandalf is looking at him with a cross between annoyance, worry and relief stamped on his face. Bilbo does what the first thing that pops into his head: grin impishly.

“Be careful. As long as you don’t go falling anytime soon, you should be good.”

“Thank you.” Bilbo sits still a moment more and, after being sure that he’s not about to die of a fucking head injury, bounces up. He turns a cartwheel and stretches himself before he begins the process of shifting down. Then he stops. It’s been too long since he was anywhere near half form, like now. He’s fucking staying like this.

He moves himself so that he can crouch a few feet away from Thorin, big, muscular legs and feet easily balancing him. His tail wraps neatly around them. He stares at Thorin until he feels Dwalin sit next to him.

“Bilbo?”

“Hmm?”

“What did Malcolm mean by fucktoy?”

“Oh, it’s an old insult, passed down from father to son. There’s a lot of things wrong with Lock, but he was no lecher.” Bilbo says quietly. Dwalin nods, because he was about to have a problem. He notices that one of Bilbo’s big claws is wagging back and forth where it hangs over his thigh.

“Impatient?”

“He’s still asleep.”

“It does take time.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t help.” He sounds like a child as his finger continues to tap air. Dwalin smiles.

“Why didn’t you kill Malcolm tonight?” he asks, smile gone. The whole company wants to hear this one. Bilbo reaches up and taps his head.

“Concussion. It stops me from really channeling my power, so the best I could have hoped for is buying time.”

“It looked like you were just fine, earlier.” One of Bilbo’s wrists rotates around until that big, red hand is face up. The center of it glows for a moment until the image of a handful of little light fairies dance and leap around his palm.

“My mind is like a… filter. There’s the original thought or wish, like shifting forms, per say. Then it gets put through my mind, which decides all the specifics- what I want to be, how much power I want to put behind the shift, stuff like that. If I do something like hit my head, it’s like the filter gets knocked askew, so I might shift, but I’d end up… a rabbit or something equally either too much or too little, up to a certain point. That’s why I could just shift once and summon my weapon, but anything more complex, like an illusion, would have put too much strain on an already damaged part of me. Make sense?” he says, looking at Dwalin again.

The warrior nods, a bit awed, as is the members of the company who have drifted over to take up listening and waiting with the two of them. When Bilbo shifts, it seems effortless- simply done and nearly impulsive. It’s seemed like second nature to Bilbo and more than a little thoughtless. Kind of like a leaf, actually- simple when seen, but complicated up close. Ori seems to remember something.

“What about your weapon? I’ve seen the sword, but never the scythe.” Bilbo smiles and seems a bit embarrassed at that.

“The scythe is actually more or less the product of all the rumors that fly around about reapers- kind of a joke. Don’t mistake me- it’s still deadly, and I still use it extremely well, but I only actually use it for final kills- it’s very magical, and not something I generally flaunt. I only pulled it out in case everything went more tits up than it already had and I wouldn’t have be able to do it later.”

“Wait, who talks about reapers?” Dori asks, suddenly very fine with talking with the person Ori is fascinated with. Bilbo smiles mischievously.

“Oh, everybody. Elves, men, hobbits, dwarves, dragons. Every culture in the world has some ancient who has seen a reaper and so come up with an explanation as best he/she can. Hence the reason why everyone has some tale of personified death- the running theme, of course, is scythes.” As he does this, he pulls up the respective images of what a reaper looks like for each culture. Ori opens his mouth again.

“Scythes, though?”

“Everyone’s used them at some point or another. It stands to reason that the thing meant for cutting great swathes of grain at once would also be the weapon of death as a person.”

“So we’ve basically been traipsing about the countryside getting chased by wargs and the walking dead… with death as a companion?” Bilbo shrugs and looks at his cane, which he did retract at some point (he doesn’t remember when).

“In fairness, I’m not really sure if it’s Reapers or Necromancers that people make fanciful stories about- probably a bit of both, since where the latter goes the former is sure to follow.”

“May-” Bilbo suddenly rises and snaps his head to the side, towards Thorin. He stares at the pile of broken dwarf.

“He will to wake soon.” Information time seems to be over as all the dwarves flock to Thorin, forming a circle around him as the dwarf king’s eyes flicker open. He sits up slowly and takes in the faces.

“What were ye thinking, laddie?” Balin breaks the silence as Thorin sweeps his eyes around the company.

“I wasn’t, I’m afraid. Where’s Bilbo?” He says once he has taken stock of battered but uninjured companions. They part like the tied and then there, beyond them, is his Bilbo- his dragon, who he is in love with and has been for quite some time. He seems cautious about approaching, the little striations pulsing in large eyes. Thorin gets to his feet and steps through the companions that have traveled with them.

Bilbo stays where he’s at as Thorin gets closer and runs a hand down the side of his face.

“I once thought that dragons were parasites in need of exterminating. I’ve never been so wrong in my life.” He wraps his arms around Bilbo, who, after a moment of frozen shock, snaps his wings so tightly around the two of them that Thorin is almost nonexistent in those red folds. Given a chance at privacy (well… kind of privacy), he kisses Bilbo and asks quietly: “are you okay?”

“Yes.. now, do tell, why are you such a fucking idiot?” it isn’t a question that needs an answer. They stay like that until Dwalin calls them back.

“You two gettin’ busy in there!?” After another moment of warmth and peace, Bilbo unwraps his wings and promptly gives Dwalin a big red finger. Thorin laughs because, really, his lover has four digits, and he still manages to flip the best bird Thorin’s seen in a long time.

“Well, since you two idiots are done being nice, we should get down the mountain,” Gandalf says.

“It won’t be as viewable down there than it is standing on top of a great big rock,” Thorin agrees. As they all set off down the mountain, Bilbo chooses the back, as usual, so that any Raised sent will hit him first, and his people second. Before, it was willful separation. Now, it’s more of an honor. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, so if I were to make this a series and have an installment that recounts the full tale of Smaug's destructive spiral, would you read it?


	22. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves get a break, and Bilbo reminisces.

Bilbo leans with his back against the rock wall, his wings extended to wrap around all three of the party’s youngest members, with Thorin and Ori on one side, and Fili and Kili on the other.They should all be asleep, but everything that’s happened has the company awake and far too aware to do such things.

Bilbo can practically taste the restlessness. One clawed finger twitches from where his arms lay sprawled on partially bent legs. Little smokey images of fae rise up from nowhere and begin to dance in a large circle. Ori giggles when two of them knock into each other as they dance across his boot tip. Bilbo begins to hum as the dancing gains some semblance of organization. As the company becomes slightly transfixed (Bilbo is pointedly NOT using any of his mesmeric ability), Bilbo’s humm bursts into a full song, his voice taking on a deeper register.

His tiny faeries grow and change from little two inch tall shapes of light to foot tall beautifully crafted fae. His creatures join hands so that each has a partner and they begin to leap and twist their hips even as they maintain their ever complicating footwork.

Tiny hands join and unjoin, and imagined jewelry winks in artificial light as Bilbo sings in the odd language of his people. Bilbo’s song rises, becomes tighter and rolls at a higher register as his little fae dance faster and faster. Just when it sounds as though Bilbo’s voice is becoming strained, he drops it back down to the deepest note he’s sung and the fae bow to each other, their imagined dance done.

“And that’s how air fae do it.” Bilbo says into the following silence. The distraction has done its duty, and many of the company are drifting. Thorin tries to stay awake, but Bilbo leans so that his mouth is next to Thorin’s ear.

“Don’t even think about it, love. I can and will stop you from staying awake tonight.”

“Yeah, because you’re just so much better off.”

“So?”

“So the both of you are not keeping watch,” Gandalf says from across the clearing. Twin gazes of red and blue turn to regard him and Dwalin cracks up at the spectacle.

“Goodnight, then.” Bilbo promptly props his forehead against his hand and closes roiling eyes even as his wings wrap a bit tighter around his four charges.

…

The morning sees last night’s aches amplified as bruises and lumps make themselves known. Bilbo looks at Thorin, who rose with the first of them and set about tromping around in the surrounding woodland for wood a while ago. He’s now making the fire. Ori is now nestled where Thorin was before, with Fili and Kili on his other side.

Bilbo’s head hurts, and he can feel every place his body hit rock in goblin town and every place that Malcolm landed a blow. It immediately puts him in a horrible mood, which he carefully clamps down on, because the three youngest members of the company are just waking up. Ori sits up first and smiles at Bilbo.

“Good morning.”

“It would seem so,” Bilbo says in lieu of an actual good morning, as his body is telling him that it’s an absolutely sucky morning. Fili and Kili wake off and bounce off to find something to fill fifteen hungry stomachs. Bilbo scowls and snaps his wings back underneath his cloak.

He decides that he needs to not walk around with only his armor covering him and so lets his magical cloak stretch and change around him while his armored plates flatten and melt into his skin. He can’t decide if it’s better or worse. He tips his red nose back to take in the surrounding sparse landscape and can smell mushrooms at the base of one of the trees, blown to him by the wind. Bilbo turns and walks around the large boulder he slept against to follow the smell of potential food.

With all his senses open, Bilbo can feel the peacefulness of the greenery around him. Lock liked places like these; far from enemies and temptation alike and too sparse to be plentiful in anything but silence. It is lovely as white capped, non poisonous mushrooms crop up in his vision. Bilbo begins to pick them, lost in thought.

…

“That’s not very helpful!”

“Tough nuts, boy.” Lock said, tired of his apprentice’s constant and almost exclusively destructive energy. All that power and no patience. It’s no wonder they don’t get along.

“I’m leaving tonight.” Lock looks up. That’s not good.

“And heading where?”

“Past the blue mountains. I can feel the infestation from here.”

“Let someone else do it. I’m close and you know it.”

“No. I’m going. If I stay, I’ll just sit and pick fights with you.”

“What? Have a falling out with one of your friends.” Ezra’s nose twitches in anger.

“I don’t have friends.”

“Don’t lie to me, Ezra. You had Archemydes, for however long that lasted. And you’re still staying here.”

“I’m half convinced going is a good idea, if only to escape your ideas of what goes on when you aren’t here.” Lock is across the room in an instant, and Ezra just barely has time to get his guard up before the force of his mentor slams him and forces him back across their shared livingroom.

“I can smell him on you- in you.” Lock snarls. Ezra’s really made him angry, this time. In truth, it isn’t about what Ezra’s gotten up to with Archemydes. It’s about the fact that Lock’s losing his mind and Ezra hasn’t got the control to stay with him until the very end. It’s about the fact that his apprentice refuses to accept that you can’t just set a due date for madness and be back before the appointed time.

It’s about the fact that Lock has wasted his time on an apprentice who never should have been picked for the job of killing him. God, taking Ezra was his greatest mistake, because Lock picked him out of spite and impulse, and it’s showing now.

Still, he has to try and get his apprentice to understand that if he does not tread careful, people will die- dozens, hundreds of people. The people Lock and Ezra have been protecting for years, alongside Archive and Archemydes, Amber and every other reaper out there.

“You cannot leave when my time is coming.”

“Maybe you should fucking stop reaping- let someone else do it. Then you don’t have to worry about going mad, right, Lock?”

“It’s too late for that.”

“It’s always too late with you!” Ezra pushes back and breaks Lock’s hold around his throat. “Too late for me! Too late for you! Too late for anything but death and I’m tired of hearing you say that! You could at least try and fix it!”

“There is no fixing this and you know that! You saw what happened to Gladstone!”

“Gladstone didn’t fight it. No body fight it anymore. They just arrange their fucking funerals and say they want carnations on their graves!” It was something Lock had said, but not to Ezra. Oh no not-

“Did you really think I wouldn’t pick up the scent of my own father?” Ezra gives a final shove and walks to the mouth of their cave.

“I’m going, and I’ll be back as soon as I can, but I’m not fucking sitting here, waiting for you to die of something you could be fighting and watching you slip off to see my father every once in a fucking while.”

…

He didn’t come back in time- couldn’t stop Lock because he wouldn’t slow down long enough to do so. The dwarves paid for it. Thorin paid for it. The closest thing he’s had to family in a long time paid for his stupid impatience. He picks the rest of the mushrooms and heads back, composing his face and body so that no one knows how morose he’s grown.

He doesn’t think he’s ready for that.

 


	23. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo remembers when he learned to fly.

The great bear clashes with Bilbo, who has shifted into a near copy, this one with copper fur. Their claws lock, and they roar in what sounds like savage rage. Soon enough, Bilbo giggles and shifts down into his humanoid form, laughing as he and Beorn tumble across the night time grass.

“You fucker!” Beorn sounds irritated and relieved as the dwarves and Gandalf watch them wrestle- black fur and a long red tail turning over and over. “I thought your careless ass died!”

“It’s my specialty.”

“Damn! I haven’t seen you since you were first learning to fly!” They break up, panting lightly.

“Look! They got bigger!” Bilbo abruptly turns around and tugs his cloak around so that the back of his tunic is visible. He stretches his wings, now larger and a great deal more muscular than they used to be.

“So they are.” Beorn rumbles before Bilbo tucks them away. It’s odd to see him so happy about seeing another person- don’t get the dwarves wrong, Bilbo is generally happy to see them, but they are always there, and what he has with Thorin is very private.

It’s almost like he’s seeking Beorn’s approval.

“So what brings the infamous Ezra here at this time?” Beorn seems to notice for the first time that Bilbo is in the company of dwarves.

“Business.”

“Oh? Word among you is that you haven’t done business for a long time.” Bilbo spreads both arms, lips pulling into a thin smile that isn’t all happy.

“I’m back.”

“And your friends?”

“Also taking care of business.” It seems that the word “business” refers to Reaping and everything that goes along with it.

“Do come in, then.”

…

They’ve been fed and provided with water and ale. It’s good food, too, and Beorn’s animals are friendly. It’s late in the evening when every dwarf and Gandalf is in bed. For the first time in months, Bilbo is pulling on a pipe- it is good pipeweed. He hums appreciatively.

“It isn’t often that one of you turn up at this Waystation.”

“Lock…” Bilbo says.

“I did wonder who would do the job.”

“It should have been done near fifty years ago.”

“Why did you disappear?” Bilbo takes another long pull on his borrowed pipe.

“I couldn’t do it. I didn’t even know, because I ran off to some place I couldn’t be reached, until years after. By then, the dwarves were already in the blue mountains but couldn’t spare men for a journey. I could have convinced Thorin to go with me. I could have made it possible, but I didn’t. My failure was in that mountain, and I couldn’t face it’s people.”

“I’ve an eye for Reapers, Ezra, and I know what cowardice looks like.” Beorn swings his head around and leans closer, prompting Bilbo to tell the truth. It never worked on Lock, but Bilbo has no Second Name to live up to, especially not that kind of name.

“As you wish, Beorn. I left because I wasn’t strong enough. I was dying with Lock, and I was dying without or with Archemydes, and I couldn’t do it anymore. So, I left on a mission that would take years to complete and, yes, I was hoping that would drown out all the things I’ve done and not done but it didn’t work. I finished what I was there to do and left. I got back and realized that I was too late.

“I should have gone to the mountain immediately and done what I promised but I was terrified of facing him and seeing a chip of his soul still in there. I was terrified that he would still be able to see me- the Lock that set me free and taught me to fly. I couldn’t face that. Not without doing someone some sort of good.

“So I left the Mountain once more and travelled to the Blue Mountains, where I first saw the dwarves- where I first saw Thorin- doing their best to survive and I realized that these are survivors. I realized that, if I wait long enough, the king I saw would eventually get it into his head that he could take back the Mountain. I just needed to find a place he would undoubtedly pass through.

“I went to the Shire, thinking that the Old Forest would be as good a place as any. I left my gear far away from me, so that no one would find me through it. One day, I got a bit clumsy, and was happened upon by a hobbit by the name of Belladonna. I didn’t know what family felt like until she and Bungo took me there. Then they died, too, during a winter too cold for me to withstand well. They died of my weakness.

“I have a lover sleeping in the other room, thinking that Smaug killed his people, that Smaug is evil. He has no idea that it was my job to prevent this whole thing from happening. Are you sure you recognize cowardice, Beorn?” Through his narrative, Bilbo’s voice has gotten deeper and more emotional, tighter and strained, as though it physically hurts to admit that every time being strong mattered, he was not. He lays his head in his hand and closes his eyes, breathing deeply and quickly, trying to regain the control he had before.

“I think it was all too early.” Bilbo laughs a self-deprecating laugh.

“That’s by far the kindest way I’ve ever heard it described.” Beorn sighs and shakes his head.

“Sleep, Reaper. I know you will not stay past the morrow.” Bilbo seems a bit more worn than he did ten minutes ago. He rises and disappears silently.

“Goodnight, Beorn.” When he finds his bed (Thorin’s, but hey!), he does not sleep. He cannot help but remember.

…

Ezra’s sitting on his pile of furs, being watched by Lock. He’s got the most peculiar look on his face, as though he is lost and pained and sore and tired and just unable to sleep at the same time. It’s a look Lock knows well.

“What do you miss, Little Prince?” It’s a mockery of Ezra’s heritage- a reminder that even though he was born a prince and treated like an animal, he is unable to forget his relatives.

“I do not.” Ezra is instantly on his guard, face back to that unbreachable mask.

“Don’t lie to me. I know what homesickness looks like.”

“I have no home that I would go back to, and I cannot miss what I have never had.” Ezra snarls at him. Lock smiles. He’s a nasty temper, this one.

“Oh, then do, pray tell, reveal to me, Little Prince, what is is you have never had.” Ezra plots up from his furs.

“I have never flown, bastard, something you promised you’d teach me three months ago!” He stalks away, long red tail curling and lashing in agitation behind him.

“You need only ask.” Lock says, rising and catching up. An hour later, Ezra is doing slow turns and wheeling in the air. It is amazing to, for the first time, feel and know instinctively how to tilt his wings so that the wind keeps him aloft, rather than hold him back.

He opens his mouth and lets out a trill of laughter so loud and joyful and utterly untainted that Lock spreads his own burgundy wings and joins him up there, showing him the ins and outs of sharp turns and abrupt directional changes.

They fly like that for as long as Ezra’s unused wings will hold him. His apprentice, though, cannot judge his own strength, so Lock lets him keep going until he does another turn and abruptly looses consciousness. He drops like a stone from a hundred and fifty feet in the air.

Lock folds his own wings tightly against his back and falls fast and hard after him. He is nearly out of room- really pushing his luck, when his big hands close around Ezra and he flairs his wings as wide as they will go, with no more than a foot to spare. He looks down at Ezra’s unconscious face.

Every time he opens his eyes, Lock sees Victor. Closed like this, though, and the feeling of low burning anger and resentment goes away, somewhat. Lock does not wake him, merely walks back through the courtyard they had taken off in and to the back of an invisible and yawning cave.

Together, the two of them disappear. When Ezra wakes up, Lock will teach him to judge his own endurance. For now though, he is reminded for the first time in months that his apprentice is barely past his second Quartyr. He cannot be expected to know a great deal.

…

Bilbo drifts off to sleep with Thorin’s arm wrapped around him and a warm memory soothing his mind for just long enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I passed fifty pages on google drive. feeling special.


	24. Onyx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo goes to take care of a problem

Bilbo ambles into the main room late into the morning. So late, in fact, that it’s almost afternoon. Apparently, most of the dwarves slept late, because quite a few of them are still looking like they just woke up and wouldn’t mind not finishing the process.

“Good morning,” Ori says. He’s the only one that will speak to Bilbo right after he’s woken. Most of the company are polishing or sharpening blades. Some of them have food that’s, for the most part, half eaten.

“Hmm.” Bilbo humms as he sinks down in front of Thorin’s calves (he’s sitting in a rocking chair) and leans back against them. Thorin pauses in the rhythmic grind of whetstone on blade to run a hand through the top of Bilbo’s hair. Then he resumes sharpening.

An animal lurks at the edge of the room. Bilbo turns his head and looks at it. As the large rabbit moves into sight, Bilbo stretches out a hand. The rabbit sniffs it first before butting its head against it. Then it hops off.

“I won’t be able to enter the Mirkwood.” The company ceases to make noise at that. Their eyes are on their leader, who took a particularly strong dislike to Bilbo disappearing during their journey and definitely won’t like being separated by the forest.

“Aye, and why’s that?”

“The Mirkwood is sick with something that doesn’t sit well with me. I used to have a level of tolerance for it but… well, it’s been fifty years, and what poison was there is now stronger. There’s another reaper three days’ trip from here. He’ll have what I need to enter the forest. I need to leave this evening.”

“What kind of trip?” Thorin asks. As loathe as he is to see his lover disappear, he is definitely more opposed to not seeing him for the entirety of the Mirkwood.

“Fast flight. Three days is actually pushing it. It’ll be a seven day trip, total, though you really shouldn’t worry until the tenth.” Thorin reaches down and squeezes the muscle between shoulder and neck.

“Very well. But eat a proper meal. I can hear your stomach.” Almost as if on cue, a dog brings a plate of food, which Bilbo thanks him for in a soft bark (?) and immediately begins to devour.

As soon as his food has been eaten, Bilbo settles back and falls asleep listening to Thorin’s weapon cleaning routine. The rabbit from before ambles up into his lap. This is nice.

…

Evening sees Bilbo through waking up, replenishing his supplies, and eating another meal. He listens to everything the company says over dinner. When full night has fallen, Bilbo stands and, after bidding everyone farewell, casts an illusion to make himself disappear.

Then, he is gone, winging out into the cold night, heading for a waystation and one of the scariest motherfuckers he’s ever had pleasure of meeting.

…

A waystation is simply a secluded, heavily guarded, little known hideout for reapers as they pass through. Waystations have medical supplies and two beds as well as preserved food that will last for decades. Bilbo’s gone weeks without deep sleep when he’s between stations.

This one is guarded by a large boulder that has been magicked so that it looks unmoveable. As a seasoned Reaper, though, he knows how to get in. Quietly, he reaches forward and gets a hand below the illusion a patch of moss.

He grabs a handle he can’t see and pulls, causing the boulder to roll out of the way. He enters, pushes the handle back in place, and keeps going. With the boulder returned to its original position, the illusion is restored as though it was never disrupted.

Bilbo walks quickly down the long, dark tunnel, deliberately stepping and not stepping in select places to avoid the booby traps. At the end of the dirt passage, there is a room. In the room is firewood and two chairs. Bilbo bypasses this entirely to get to the door on the other side.

This room opens up into a bedroom. He checks one of the beds and collapses on top of it, worn out from three days of fast flight. His eyes drift shut almost immediately as the tension leaks out of his spine and the pressure leaves his body. The reaper he’s meeting won’t be here for several hours. Now is the time to replenish his energy.

…

Hours later, Bilbo rises and enters the living room once more. The fire is lit and crackling gently in the hearth. In one of the armchairs, a dark silhouette smokes. The plumes rise gracefully above his head every several seconds.

“Good evening, Ezra.”

“Onyx.” Bilbo takes the second armchair and turns to watch the other Reaper.

“How did you know I was in your dreams?”

“I got this feeling.” The vagueness of the statement alone is enough to tell Onyx everything he needs to know.

“That’s funny.” No one just gets a “feeling”.

“Do you still have what I gave you?”

“Hmm… yes. I figured you’d eventually need it. That is, if you ever decided to leave Hobbiton. How was it, by the way?”

“That’s not important.”

“Yeah, it is. I can smell the grief all over you. Whoever it is you met in the Shire made your world.”

“Do you always have to go and dig up old grief or is this just something you do to let me know you love me?” Onyx cracks a smile and offers Bilbo what he’s smoking. It’s a long cylinder, stuffed with tobacco- a cigar. Damn, it’s been ages. Bilbo grasps it carefully and takes a long drag.

“Thank you.”

“I’m just making sure your stable before I do you any favors.” Bilbo snorts.

“Since when do you care?” Bilbo hands the cigar back after another pull.

“As much as I’d like you dead, you are a Reaper, and Archemydes still cares for you, though he really shouldn’t.”

“Again with the wounds. You’re on fire tonight, Onyx.” The other reaper frowns. The expression is a sore spot for every Cursed, since none of them possess the most coveted ability among dragons.

“Very funny.” The reaper reaches into his coat and pulls out a small crystal, wrapped in silver wire and attached to a chain. He holds it out to Bilbo, but draws back when he reaches for it.

“What did you pick up in the Goblin caverns?”

“Something disgusting.” Onyx hands Bilbo the crystal.

“Thank you.”

“Before you go, you should probably know that the dynamics of the Lavender Isles have shifted.”

“How?”

“They’ve begun to train the Cursed to fight. It’s highly effective, as only the powerful ones are allowed to be trained, and they have the weaker, suppressed ones as an example of what life as a Disloyal is.”

“Yay. They have a new name and a new excuse.”

“There’s more. Word has reached the rest of your family that you are not dead, and are now the most wanted criminal among dragonkind. With incubi now under the von Thorne’s thumb, you’ve been tracked. They’re sending a team to bring you in.”

“Has Bishop taken power?”

“No.” Onyx watches Bilbo carefully. The fucker never does react well to news of his family. Onyx is often the only one who sees it, though, since he’s the only one who can walk in Bilbo’s dreams unattacked.

“It won’t be long, though. Thank you, Onyx. Goodbye, for now.” As Bilbo makes for the tunnel, Onyx stands, too, and hands Bilbo the rest of the cigar- it’s only half gone.

“Stop blaming yourself for everything. Lock knew you weren’t ready.”

“We’ve been through this, already.” Bilbo brushes by him and back out into the world. In the pre-dawn light, he smokes the last of his cigar, stubs it out on an actual rock, and takes off. His father has sent dragons to bring him back to the Lavender Isles. They will head for the company, since Bilbo, himself, is much harder to track. He must be there when it happens.


	25. A Confusion of Wills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo makes it back in time.

He is back when he says he’ll be. Beorn’s lands come into sight on the seventh evening. The sun is all but gone, and the night’s chill has set in. Bilbo is cold, exhausted, but altogether well and unharmed. He alights outside of the house and opens the door quietly, slipping through the dining room and into the living room with no fanfare.  Ori is the first to see him.

“Bilbo!” The dragon smiles a thin smile and hugs Ori. He’s yet to shift into a smaller form, so the hug completely engulfs the dwarf he feels the most protective of. He stays like that a moment. Before long, all the younger dwarves have got their arms around their companion.

“I did miss you all.”

“Let’s hope so.” Thorin says drily from where he sits in a rocking chair, smoking. From what Bilbo can see, the pipe is almost empty. After a few more drags, he stands up and follows Bilbo as the dragon makes his way to where he knows the spare beds are. At Thorin’s insistence, though, he’s pushed into a room with a large iron tub.

“I don’t like water.”

“And yet, you need it.” Thorin says glibly as he stokes the fire to roaring life and then proceeds to heat water. Bilbo crosses his arms.

“That’s debatable.” Thorin turns to hi with an arched eyebrow.

“It’s not that bad.” As someone who spent most of his life with his home at risk to water and its various forms, he doesn’t like it either. Still, Bilbo definitely needs a bath. His hair has not been spared from the dirt of travel.

“Well, think of it like this: you won’t have to touch water at all in the Mirkwood.” At Bilbo’s look of pure “fuck you”, Thorin cracks a smile. This is definitely his Bilbo. Eventually, he gets Bilbo to shift his clothing away and sink beneath hot liquid.

He sets about running a rag all along Bilbo’s body. The water quickly turns brown.  An hour and ten minutes later, Bilbo has been both washed and dried. He follows Thorin back to their shared room and lets out a yawn. Always one to favor partial shifts, the bottom half of him has morphed into a snake’s tail.

Thorin takes a seat on his bed after unearthing his supply of hair stuff. Bilbo settles with his arms on Thorin’s legs and the tail wending about his feet. As Thorin expertly detangles and brushes and softens Bilbo’s hair, the dragon is hard put to stay awake. Only the dull pain of having long uncombed hair done keeps him awake.

Still, Thorin is fast and efficient, so even that does not last long. One does not simply semi-raise two dwarrows who love getting dirty and be anything else. Soon enough, both Thorin and Bilbo are in bed. Not even the coming threat can stop the exhaustion.

…

 

Sometime the next day, late into the afternoon, Thorin looks at his lover, who is quietly watching everyone. Bilbo hasn’t done that for a long time. Not in that way, in any case. He looks sinister, taking up the entirety of an armchair. His eyes flick over everyone, and that’s when Thorin gets it. It’s his eyes.

In what Thorin supposes is foresight, the company rarely sees the same eyes that caused the death of hundreds of dwarves. It’s almost like Bilbo is a bit ashamed. By way of silent agreement, the eyes stay put away. They are visible now. The roiling depths look feral- unloveable in a way Bilbo has NEVER come across as.

“You’re not Bilbo.” Thorin says, half unaware that it has been said out loud. The few company members that are inside- Dwalin, Ori, Dori, and Gloin, all stop and look to Bilbo. Not for a second do they doubt Thorin. The dragon grins, and it’s filled with fangs.

“You must feel so smart.” The red skin instantly begins to bloom in spots of blue. It spreads like a fatal wound and covers the entirety of his body. The facial features shift, becoming thinner, more ethereal than Bilbo’s hobbit-y proportions. Thorin is on his feet in a second.

“Bilbo is engaged, at the moment.” Thorin and Dwalin share a glance.

“Engaged with who?” The dragon smiles.

“His fiance. Of course, since the fucker’s a bit resistant, I came to collect an ultimatum. If you’ll excuse me…” He crouches and sweeps forwards, meeting Thorin’s sword and Dwalin’s axes. Instantly, he morphs into a moth and back to a dragon with enough time to snatch up Ori. Ori, who has long had Bilbo’s heart in his hands. Ori, who Bilbo would die for.

He wheels in the small room and shoots back towards the door. A roar goes up from the back rooms- Beorn has sensed his intruder. All three members of the present company leaps for the dragon, but he’s already gone through the window.

The bear bursts through the door.

“WHERE IS HE!?”

“He just flew out the window.”

“HOP ON.” In short order, Thorin, Dwalin, and Gloin are astride the great bear. Gandalf, having sensed a problem, gets there in time to see them go. He starts after them. Whatever possessed Beorn to bear dwarrows, it cannot be good.

…

He has always been the greater of the two. He has always been stronger, faster, better, and, most importantly, free. This little problem dogged Bilbo all through his childhood. It haunted his steps as an adult and his life as a Reaper. The fact that this creature before him- this dragon- had the better of their fortunes but did nothing but assert the willess existence of Bilbo’s caged status, has always burned Bilbo.

It has always eaten at him. It begged and ending. Later, when it did end, when Bilbo found himself in possession of something he could really fight him with, it begged for revengence. The thought of Winter has brought hatred boiling in Bilbo’s gut for a long time. So fitting that this creature would target Bilbo now, when, by his own code, Bilbo cannot hurt him with the same ability that lets him reap.

Make no mistake- he will follow that code.

Winter swipes downwards with a clawed hand, taking a chunk of cheek with it. The bleeding is immediately stopped with the frost that he produces. Bilbo bares his fangs and pushes right back. He gets fangs into neck, right above the armor. He takes a hit to the stomach for it, but it is worth it to see him be on his guard.

Winter comes at him with a sword- a rapier, like Bilbo’s- and is met by more metal. The clang does not disguise approach of wings, but Bilbo can do nothing about this new addition. Winter has given himself additional armour made of ice. Two ice minions make their way to him, their own freezing claws threatening death.

Suddenly, the advances stop.

“Oooooh Eeeezraaaa,” a voice sings behind him. Bilbo turns his head a bit and catches sight of… NO. Nononono not Ori. Never Ori. Bilbo lunges for him. The dragon lifts into the air.

“Nope. Not today, you piece of shit. Stand down, or you can clean this little fucker’s blood off the dirt.” After just a moment of indecision, Bilbo raises both hands in the air, dropping his sword.

“On your knees,” Winter says. He stands behind Bilbo, something in his hands. Bilbo’s not sure what it is, but he knows it’s not worth Ori. He goes. The heavy weight of a collar settling against his throat are enough to send the dread roiling in his brain. He can feel the magic.

“Won’t try shifting. It won’t work well for you,” Winter says again. Oh god. They finally did it. They finally found a way to really stop shifting. Bilbo is working on plan, though. He’s got his eyes glued on the other dragon. They glow and shift and roil and dare. His eyes beg for attention.

Just as Winter reaches for his right wrist with a second cuff, the other dragon looks at him.

“Land and go to sleep.” He is a powerful mesmerist. He will not be denied. He twists out of Winter’s surprised grip and slams his forehead into that majestic nose. he is seconds from killing him as frost works to stop the bleeding, but instead he grabs that head in both his hands and brings it just inches from him.

He leans forwards and whispers something into the ear of Winter. The dragon, thoroughly mesmerized, turns and flies off. Bilbo turns to the other dragon, asleep in the grass. Ori has managed to pry himself loose from his blue hands.

“Ori?” Bilbo seems hesitant to approach, his guilt oh-so-clear.

“I’m okay.” Bilbo rapidly approaches and catches Ori up in a hug so engulfing that Ori just knows that that dragon had to be lying. Bilbo can’t be engaged. He can’t be. He’s too… noble and good. He cares too much about Thorin to ever lead the dwarf on like that.  

They are still like that, crouched in the grass, when Beorn arrives with the dwarves. Bilbo looks up and, without removing his arms, folds his wings back and away from Ori, letting the company see that he is okay and well.

None of the company says a word about what the blue dragon said as Bilbo and Ori are separated and, after being assured that Ori is not hurt, takes Bilbo’s face in both hands. It’s completely clear.

“Drop the glamour, Bilbo,” Thorin orders. Bilbo shakes his head and lays his heavy forehead against Thorin’s shoulder.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yes.” Bilbo shakes his head. Thorin looks at him.

“Don’t test me, Bilbo.” His shoulders seem to drop further as his curly head is maneuvered by Thorin and pulled back a bit. Bilbo won’t meet his eyes. Just then, Gandalf arrives on the scene. Being a wizard, he seems to immediately understand what everyone else is missing. He presses his mouth into a hard line and says in the kind of disapproving fatherly voice Bilbo has not heard in a long time (it’s usually the understanding fatherly one).

“There’s no avoiding it, Bilbo.” The head ducks a bit more. He turns his gaze away as he, after a few seconds more of resisting, abruptly drops his glamour, revealing to all what only Gandalf had known existed.

Winter had cut Bilbo with his claws and twice with his sword. Each time, frost had spread deep into the wounds. For a dragon that thrives in hot temperatures and has a lower threshold to cold than most of his kind, this kind of wound is sapping his strength, getting the cold well and deep. He has three wounds in total: the set of claw marks on his cheek, a slice on his thigh, and another on the corresponding arm. What draws attention the most, however, is the heavy black band around Bilbo’s throat.

Solid and seemingly sinister, the thing is actually a collar. Suddenly Thorin gets this idea that this is what Bilbo feared when he was a child- this monstrosity that has taken away the king’s fearless and altogether unshakeable reaper-lover. The dwarves have, over the course of the journey, been filled in on a number of little details.

For instance, when you’re Cursed, you’re hated, and when you’re hated, you’re controlled. As per status quo, this has clearly happened to Bilbo, hence his leaving his people. That’s another thing: dragons are still, quite clearly, Bilbo’s people. Despite the detached way Bilbo describes his culture- detached, the way some dwarves describe the ragnarok that is Erebor- he is still clearly the Lavender Isle’s youngest prince, and to break entirely from his family is impossible.

So when Bilbo has a confrontation with a man who is supposedly “engaged” to him (Thorin’s betting on a slightly different story there, mainly involving coercion, a lack of consent- all things that void a marriage in most dwarven cases.) and comes out not victorious that he won but shameful of the toll, Thorin does not question the strangeness of it.

As absurd as it is, he won’t make Bilbo spell it out in detail WHY he’s ashamed- it’s a shackle. When a dwarf is shackled and he can’t remove it, he wears it with pride. Instead, he’s going to do the thing that leaders and caring people do- Bilbo is injured. He needs attention to his WOUNDS, not the source of his shame. Thorin turns his head. He’s betting the bear will give Bilbo a lift.

Beorn, for his part, seems to be working in tandem with Thorin’s own mental train of thought, as he walks over and, having shifted back into human form, scoops up Bilbo and starts walking back towards his cottage. The dwarves follow, and not one of them says a word about the collar. If Bilbo wishes to, he will explain. If not, then he won’t. That is final.

 


	26. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin goes for some answers

Dragons, in general, have a low tolerance to cold. It’s how firebreathing even came about; it was better to have such a protection inside of you than risk not being able to get it outside. Unfortunately, firebreathing is now a rare trait (highly envied), and everyone who does not have at least some kind of heat-generating power is more susceptible to cold. This means Bilbo.

They’ve got him stretched out in front of a roaring fireplace. Gandalf’s taken away the frost in his wounds, but it’s still affected him something terrible.  Beorn seems to be watching him with an almost fatherly gaze. Bilbo begins to shift and mumble Oin ties off the last of his wounds with a needle and thread. He doesn’t quite manage to make the knot.

The onset of whatever Bilbo is seeing is quick and merciless. His mouth opens and his fangs seem to extend of their own accord as he fights the hold of several dwarves and Beorn. Gandalf does his best to get his hands on Bilbo’s face, trying to stay his mind. A low growl echoes through a long torso. His hands open and close, the slender fingers more claw than fresh, now.

As Gandalf works his magic and Bilbo falls silent again, Thorin cannot stop thinking about Bilbo. He keeps trying to fit this mystery assailant into everything Bilbo’s said about his people. There’s a great deal Thorin notices as he sits next to Bilbo.

The first thing is that Thorin can’t recall a time when Bilbo actually incorporated himself in what he’s said. He’ll sometimes say “my people”, but he rarely says “I”. The disconnect is an odd thing for someone who still associates himself with other dragons outside of the Reapers. It makes him think that maybe Bilbo can’t let it go. Not won’t, can’t.

It’s probably the reason why he’s never mentioned actual people, aside from the necessary. It makes Thorin wonder how real this engagement is to Bilbo. In practice- no. Cursed have no will within their own people, so Thorin’s willing to bet that whatever promises were made came from someone else’s mouth. But Bilbo is clearly a dragon and, though he hardly ever shows it, a prince at that. There is no way it’s completely insignificant.

He’ll never follow through on it (Thorin has faith in that) but he’s not free of it, either. What an odd place to be in. He looks over at his lover, wrapped in blankets, turned to the fire and sleeping deeply. He can see the dark circles under his eyes. Bilbo looks haunted, laying there with a collar around his neck like that.

Thorin runs a hand through his curls, wondering at the wisdom of what he’s about to do. If Bilbo keeps to his pattern, as he most certainly will, then Thorin will never know what it means for him to be engaged. Not on a personal level. Not only that, but he doesn’t want Bilbo to have to explain all this. He’ll have to get answers himself.

Thorin leans over to kiss Bilbo’s forehead before rising. He waits a moment to see if the dragon will respond or maybe start dreaming. For whatever reason, he’s begun to project whatever he dreams into the air above his head. Some of it is disturbing. None of it has sound.

…

Thorin walks into an empty, barren room with no windows in Beorn’s house. As he gets closer, he can feel the magic. It’s not like elven magic, subtle and somewhat limited. He can feel the difference in this restless, bright variation. Beyond that door is the dragon that took Ori. Thorin opens it.

Runes line the walls, dictating the boundaries the dragon has. A quarter of the room has been cordoned off to contain the angry, wild creature inside. He’s awake and pacing, tale lashing, dangerous green eyes shifting. Sometimes he attacks the field. Sometimes he doesn’t.

When he sees Thorin, he abruptly goes still, intense and dangerous eyes locked curiously on the dwarf who carries Bilbo’s scent the most. He’s heard about this particular dwarf. When Winter was telling him of Bilbo, he mentioned that the creature before him is, in fact, Bilbo’s greatest failure. It smells like they’re in bed together.

“Well, if it isn’t the dwarven prince.” The dragon purrs, stepping close to the boundary he cannot pass. He didn’t expect Bilbo to know how to cast this kind of spell. It’s something only range dragons can do.

“Good evening,” Thorin says neutrally. He can tell two things from the dragon right off. One: it won’t be hard to get what he wants this time. Two: this is a very bad idea.

“It’s funny, I knew Ezra was a traitor and the lowest of the low, but I never thought he’d let dwarven shit fuck him.” Thorin suddenly forgets about what he’s actually here for. He’s used to being thought of as worthless, but his lover is so much more.

“Funny. For someone who’s so low, he sure seemed to take you out quite easily.” The thin, toothless smile is poison to the injury. The dragon snarls. That little-

“I am far greater than you’ll ever be.” The dwarf laughs at him- laughs!

“And yet, you are in there, and I am out here.”

“At least I’m not being lied to!” The dragon hurls out. He doesn’t give Thorin time to react. “Do you know what they call you, dwarf? Do you know what they say when they talk about Ezra’s weaknesses? They say you’re his greatest mistake. The fact that he hasn’t told you makes him a coward. I might be in here, but you’ve been fucking a liar.” His disgust is much stronger than Bilbo let on. Thorin opens his mouth to respond, an equally acidic reply on his tongue, when he realizes that he has something better to say.

“Well, that was easy.” Then he promptly sweeps out of the room. He gets it now. Or, most of it. Everything Bilbo has said about himself and his life up to this point has all been part of a big picture. It’s one Thorin can’t see. He thinks he knows part of it.

Bilbo said that Lock was his mentor and that he has to go and kill him. Thorin previously thought that Bilbo’s the one to do it because he’s the only one who can or maybe just feels the duty to. It can’t be all, though, because, according to the dragon in the room, Thorin is Bilbo’s greatest failure.

Maybe Bilbo was supposed to stop Smaug before he ever started. Thorin gets the epiphany that it’s not Thorin, it’s all Ereborian dwarves. He sits down quietly in the spot he left. In a few hours, he’ll go outside and practice fighting, maybe give Fili and Kili a run for their money. For now though, Thorin begins to wonder when, and if, Bilbo will ever tell him about Erebor on his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news: I won't be able to update as often or as regularly. Let me know what you think!


	27. Revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo passes verdict on the dragon with the blue skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, I just finished this about a minute ago.

Bilbo is awake again. His projecting stopped a few days ago, and he woke up just hours after. None of the Company has mentioned it, yet. The dragon sits on Beorn’s great stone hearth. His body faces the room but his head is swung to the side, staring at what light is visible. Staring at the flames.

“So you’re just going to let him go.” Dwalin says flatly. The blue dragon is still in the windowless room in the back of Beorn’s house, held under spells originally placed by Bilbo and strengthened by Gandalf. The Company is of the mind that he needs to be punished for laying a hand on Ori. A dark blue eye flicks to Dwalin for a minute before sliding away.

“He’s a small fish.”

“Orcan scouts are small fish.”

“The orcs know who and what they are. No scout is a badly grown brat, running around doing the work of those who hate him.”

“HE HURT ORI! THAT CAN’T BE EXCUSED.” Bilbo’s nostrils flair for a moment.

“He’s not. But there are more important things to consider than him. For instance: who sent them? What’s happened that has made them seek me now, of all times? Who gains from all this?”

“Your father.” The “your” is spat like an insult and an accusation. Bilbo’s mouth thins further in a mirthless smile.

“Don’t be a fool. He may have sent them, but he’s not the one that gains from this.”

“He is king.”

“He is king-esque. I told you already: he’s a Patriarch, which is more the highest seat on the council than an absolute ruler, though he has amassed power over the years. No, this is someone else; some powerplay has happened, and another player has gained influence. This is that person’s idea.”

“For someone who’s the center of this hunt, you seem awfully uncaring,” Dori prods.

“I’m thinking. This is probably a house wide movement, and there are only a few that could have done this, back when I knew the Lavender isles.”

“You said that was two hundred and fifty years ago.” Thorin says.

“It was, but dragons live up to five hundred years. It takes millennia to build or destroy the kind of power needed to hunt me down.”

“I thought you were a Cursed.”

“I am. I’m also the son of the Lavender Isle’s most influential and dangerous Blessed. It provides… not protection, I think, but more like I’ve been ignored, rather than hunted, all this time,” Bilbo explains, rubbing the rough tips of his fingers against his collar.

“Which is why I know someone else came into power, and recently. Hmm. They could be waiting on us, actually.”

“What do you mean?” Dori looks at Dwalin. They’re getting somewhere.”

“There’s a mountain full of gold that’s just sitting there.”

“They couldn’t get to it?” Thorin asks. Bilbo shakes his head.

“Reapers have been watching over the mountain since their respective conceptions. Every Reaper that went to Erebor put a protective barrier around it, to deter Necromancers. A meer dragon is nothing to that field. The only reason Smaug got past it is because he was a reaper. He knew that barrier inside and out. Once tried to figure out how many times he’d been there by counting all the different times he’s recast the spell. More than a dozen layers were his,” Bilbo’s eyes are soft in the firelight as he remembers his mentor as he was. Ori pipes up from his spot on the carpet.

“Why so much?” Bilbo’s mouth tightens in displeasure.

“All that gold bred greed and all that greed attracts black magic like nothing else. It was necessary.”

“What was it like, on your end?” Fili says. The two of them don’t remember Erebor. He doesn’t think Ori does, either. Bilbo’s eyes focus and slide to Thorin, asking permission. The king nods. A nostalgic smile stretches his thin lips.

“It was like nothing I’d ever seen before, the first time Lock brought me. Hundreds of dwarves moved about their business. Lock and I were unnoticed, as we had taken the form of travelling dwarves, and entered just like anyone else.

“The markets were packed, and the bright colors of different shops made me want to stay there all day. One time, I did. At one point, your grandfather,” Bilbo says with a nod to Thorin, “was there. He looked as a king should and appeared to be a good one.

“In those days, Erebor was well. Lock was as stable as he could be, too. Late in the night, he takes me from the rooms we’d rented and shows me the barrier, deep in the old mine tunnels. He says ‘Erebor is part of my domain, meaning that it’s my job to protect it. When I die, it will be yours, so you need to know how to do this.’ He showed me how to set the barrier that night.

“The next morning, before the shops opened up for the day, we snuck onto a roof, and he taught me to see pick out different aspects of dwarven auras. There was one Raised in a city of more than a thousand people,” Bilbo dies off, eyes far away.

“What happened after?” Bilbo shrugs.

“What always happened, in those days. We finished and left, travelling to the Mirkwood, which was already infected. We once fought over whether or not Mirkwood should even be a part of any Domain, as the elves always recognize Necromancers for what they are and the forest was dying of something no one could fix.

“That’s the first time we really fought. We’d had problems with each other before, but I was either too inexperienced to hold my own or it just wasn’t worth the fighting. We must have fought the issue back and forth for weeks after.

“It’s only much later that I realized his conviction to go until he drops was killing him and had been for years. By that time, though, I’d already gone far past the Blue Mountains. He’d already passed reason.” Bilbo’s eyes were closed, and the Company got lost in his memories.

“He doesn’t even know who his own enemies are.” Bilbo says, abruptly bringing the problem back to the focal point of the group.

“At some point, that’s going to kill him more than any retribution on my part. Rest assured, someone will pay, but it will be whoever had the audacity to send him,” Bilbo says to a silent room.

“Are you sure?” Dwalin says. It’s been a long time since Bilbo faced his own people, according to what he’s said about it.

Bilbo opens his eyes and turns his head to Dwalin.

“It is long past time I settled my problems with the Lavender Isles. When the quest is over, I will need to leave.”

“What are you going to do?” Dwalin prods further. He can’t help but be suspicious.

“What always happens when people poke sticks at things that should be better left alone. I’m going to start a revolution.”

 


	28. Recovering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days after Winter's visit.

Gandalf has gotten a hold of Bilbo’s magic fabric and refuses to give it back to him, on account of the fact that Bilbo gets incredibly crotchety over his injuries. Having clothes that don’t have to move just escalates the problem. Beorn, being the master of a waystation, has clothing that fits Bilbo, and they’re in the style of his people.

The loose trousers stop at the knee. The tunic is a snug wrap around. Both of these are held in place with a broad length of fabric, tied around the waist and hips. Over that goes a loose, short jacket. The shirt has sleeves, but the jacket doesn’t. Also there are ankle and wrist cuffs that cover half his calf/forearm.

He’s sitting by the fire. According to Gandalf, it’ll take a couple of days before he’s well enough to fight again. Ori is sitting next to him, and the two of them are in quiet conversation in the peace post dinner. No one interrupts; something’s been bothering Ori, and it seems like Bilbo’s the only one who can fix it.

Thorin watches the two, trying not to look at the collar.

The sleek black ring would look good, but for its nature. Bilbo’s throat flexes and moves against it, voice heard around it. Every now and then, he unconsciously reaches up and rubs underneath it. Thorin wonders if the same salve used for the agitation caused by wrist manacles would work here. Probably. Maybe. He really wouldn’t know. Bilbo isn’t even dwarven.

He realizes that Bilbo’s caught him staring, purple eyes fixed on Thorin’s refocused blue ones. The collar has apparently made everything harder to do, as most of the glamours Bilbo’s worn are gone, including the one that turns his eyes brown. Thorin looks away. No one should stare. It’s like cementing whatever it already means to wear that collar.

…

Yes! Two days, Bilbo’s sat still and let Gandalf’s magic work around everything that’s already in him. For two days, he’s behaved (mostly). Now he has his cane back and Beorn’s agreed to go a round or two with him.

The sun shines brightly and warmly down on his skin. Thank god and good riddance to mountain passes. He grips his cane at middle and end and pulls, exposing the fine, thin blade hidden within. With a sleek shink the metal is out, silver death glinting in the morning sun. He sets down its sheath and gives his sword a few experimental swings, testing his weight.

The weapon is magical and ancient. It takes the shape of its owner and has been passed down from mentor to student for hundreds of years. For the first reaper, the weapon was a long, gnarled staff with a green gem in the top. For Lock, it was a heavy broadsword. For Bilbo, it’s a rapier.

He fixes a hand behind his back as he moves away from the porch and within range of Beorn, who has his own broadsword (it’s so much like Lock’s that it almost hurts). He raises his sword arm (left) and takes up a fencer’s stance. It’s no way to fight a skinchanger, but Bilbo has not practiced in quite some time. He’s somewhat stiff from the healing and shit that’s happened over the past few days.

The start by circling and gradually change into an actual fight. Bilbo sticks to attack-and-retreat, searching for his rhythm. It’s been too long (fool, Lock tells him, arms crossed, face impassive). When he’s comfortable, he switches tactics, trying to get between Beorn and his weapon.

As for the great skinchanger, he has harboured dozens of reapers, and this is an old game. He lunges once, twice, thrice, driving Bilbo back. With the dragon on the defensive, he switches from attacks at his chest to a head height swing. When Bilbo raises the sword, deflecting, he goes for the knees. Again, deflection.

Beorn raises the sword above his head in one hand, the other set to catch any flickering injuries. The sword arches down in a bright flash of the sun. If Bilbo blocks with the way he holds the sword, he’ll lose his grip and this battle. He doesn’t, though.

By some stroke of mastery, he lets go of the sword for the barest of moments, hand twisting with the metal’s momentum so that the sword is now held backwards. He throws up the rapier at the last possible moment, and finds himself blocking the huge weapon just inches from his proud forehead.

Though the actual sound of the block is a high, short screech and simultaneous clang, there is something else there: the low, reverberating feeling of ancient magic coming into play. It seems to roll out and toward the audience. This is why he wouldn’t practice with any of the dwarves. This is the kind of magic that would drive them mad.

It gets into their heads, though the two fighters have long been used to this particular brand of magic. Beorn forces the sword down with all his strength as Bilbo pushes up, struggling to switch his position.

Beorn whips the sword down so fast that Bilbo almost looses the exposed knee directly in Beorn’s path. For a moment, there’s a few feet of space between the two before Bilbo’s whipping forwards, rapier in the opposite hand. He adopts the same tactic he had before, but there’s less “retreat” and more, pick another area to stab at.

Finally, Beorn does an odd twist with his sword that send Bilbo’s rapier flying. The dragon snarls, raising his red skinned hands in two fists. Beorn takes the challenge, striking at him over and over until he manages to get a foot behind both of Bilbo’s and trip him.

His opponent goes ass first and just barely gets his hands up to catch the flats of the blade in either side. Beorn carefully forces the broadsword down, down, down until the tip just barely touches the collar around Bilbo’s neck. Down and out.

As Bilbo rises, he’s got a silly, dangerous grin on his face, fangs glinting in the morning sun. He holds out his hand in the direction that his sword got off to. It comes zipping back point first. Right before he impales himself on his own damn weapon, he jerks back and catches it as it moves past.

“Feeling better?” The giant skinchanger rumbles at Bilbo as his red wings rise and flex in happiness. The company’s never seen him look like this.

“It feels so good to be back.” He says quietly, out of their hearing. They’ve got four days until it’s time to leave for the Mirkwood. Then, he’ll have problems a plenty, but for now, he simply enjoys the sun. The last time he got the chance, he was in hobbiton.

Bilbo still remembers his arrival.

…

_The Old Forest was a balm to him, in those days. The ancient magic pulsing slowly in the trees and under the soil was a dilution to the madness he can feel in his mind. The sun never showed through there, so he had to trek near the edge of the forest._

_Normally, he’d be worried about being seen, but none of the hobbits entered this forest save one, and she was here yesterday. Bilbo stretched out, near bare, with only his armored scales to cover his ass and groin._

_Leaves and plants brushed his naked chest as he closed his eyes, sucking up summer warmth. He didn’t notice he’s tired until he’s asleep._

_The shift of air awakened him. He opened burning yellow-gold eyes to see a stout and lovely looking hobbit. Her dress was an old one, as was the pinafore. Ezra recognized the adventuring one; the one who was here yesterday. Hanging from one elbow was a basket. He could see the faint outline of a flat hilted knife inside of her slightly misfitted shirt._

_“Hello.” She said simply and with a slight smile. Ezra could tell that she’s already mesmerized. His power had always been potent, even when he didn’t know it was there._

_“Hello.” He rolled over, horns going with him as he saw her right side up and in close proximity for the first time. He propped himself up on his elbows, and her eyes flick ever so quickly to the long, pointed nails on the end of each red finger._

_“Are you a dragon?” She said abruptly. He got the sense that she’d be a generally polite creature, but his aura made it hard for those unused to it to do any altering to their speech._

_“Yes.” He said. He can always mesmerize her later. It’s not as if he didn’t know where she lives. He can follow a scent trail and pick a lock. Their gazes just lock for a while, neither party bothered by the breach in manners. (He thinks the hobbit is unable to be bothered, now.)_

_“Belladonna,” she said quickly and extends a hand. Ezra has no intention of moving, so he stayed right where he’s at, watching. Black unkempt curls wrap around each other, hiding the area of his forehead that his horns arch from. Belladonna seemed quite worried about being impaled (if she can still feel worry), as she couldn’t stop looking._

_Belladonna took a few steps forward. Her small, healthy arm in reach of his great and deadly ones. Ezra wrapped that tiny little hand in his own in a handshake. Like everyone else, Belladonna felt cool to him. The sweat shone on her forehead and dampened her shirt._

_“Tea?” She says. She sits down without preamble and flicked the cover off her basket. Ezra smiled. She glanced at his prominent fangs but went on pouring tea. Ezra pulled himself fully upright and crossed his legs, studying his maybe-friend._

_“Yes.” Belladonna smiled a bit as she handed him a cup. As Ezra sniffed before drinking (poison always hid in his tea)._

_“What’s your name?” the hobbit. Ezra looked at her closely, trying to see why she’d want to know._

_“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to make you forget.” He said. He winked, some of the charm he used to bypass people sneaking its way back into his habits. It’s not that he wasn’t going to mesmerize her, it’s just that he didn’t really want to do so, anymore. He liked this hobbit who brought tea and didn’t mind that she’s drinking it with what looks like a monster._

_It was a start better than most._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh... hi. So, I know: bad author. Baaaad author. I'm very sorry. I hope you know that this was not intentional. Good grades and good writing and good work simultaneously is like shitting bricks. I'll try to work on the rest this weekend.


	29. Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo must pay the piper.

Bilbo’s eyes were pulled downwards, toward what seems like a restful sleep. He knows, though, that no such thing will arrive; he is at the foot of the Mirkwood. It’s this forest that has struck fear into the hearts of Necromancers and Reapers alike.

He stays awake as long as he can, staring into the darkness. Eventually, though, the feel of Thorin’s arm thrown around his waist and lack of motion robs him of his awareness. No sooner has he fallen asleep then he shifts until he’s facing Thorin, curled into his chest, back to the forest.

…

Pomegranate bloom strong and lovely all around him. The crunchy leaf fall underfoot and the gentle, lukewarm air punctured by the odd and cool breeze lets Bilbo know that it is early fall, in this dream.

It is a dream. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that. He also knows that this is no ordinary dream. Bilbo looks around him. He can smell mushrooms underneath the upper most layers leaf cover. He knows the mushrooms grow from earthy, wet mulch and loam.

Even as he watches, a gentle wind dislodges a handful of oblong leaves from their nests and swirls them down through the trees. One of them brushes against Bilbo. Instantly, the dragon realizes that he’s wearing the loose tunic and trousers of his homeland. The fabric of each is a dark, supple brown, matching the underbelly of the leaf carpet. The sash is red.   
For the second or so that the leaf is in contact with his bare, marked arm, Bilbo can hear voices. Hundreds of them, whispering, murmuring, shifting around. They drown each other out until they sound like cloud cover. Then the leaf is gone. The voices stop.

Bilbo begins to walk. His long, wiry legs carry him barefoot through the lovely scenery. No more leaves touch him, but he knows something will soon. So he walks, aware that he is, in fact, going no where. This is a dream. Normally, he could die here, and chalk it up to a nightmare moments later. If he dies in this one, though, he will likely go mad.

When he is sure he has the attention, he calls out.

“What do you want, Onyx?” A gust of wintry temperature and strength shakes down half the leaves from several trees. They swirl together. Various shades of brown and green merge and whisper by each other until they have condensed too much to move.  From that pile, lines harden, color darkens, facial features and limbs and hair emerge.

Bilbo finds himself looking at Onyx.

“What do you want?” True to his name, Onyx’s skin is as black as rot and just as dangerous to one’s well being. As an incubus, he has the power to drive people mad from the anonymity of their dreams. it’s a scary thought; go to sleep sane and wake up mad.

“You mesmerized Winter.” Onyx steps closer, into Bilbo’s personal space.

“You let him near me. If you didn’t want him changed, you would have waylaid him ahead of time.” Onyx’s nose curls.

“You’re supposed to have control, Ezra. I was testing you.”

“That’s too bad,” Bilbo said.

“Release him. You know he can’t reap like that.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“You’re in the same boat, now. He dies if he returns.”

“The poor baby. I can’t imagine being exiled from my own home.” Bilbo’s snarling now, even as he automatically circles Onyx. Who the hell does this? He turns and begins to stride away, fully aware that his lack of emotional balance when it comes to Winter will affect the dreamscape around him.

“Ezra-”

“It!” He wheels around and walks right up to him.

“Is!” They are just barely separated, now.

“Bilbo!” and it has been for some fifty years.

“You cannot go around mesmerizing every enemy.”

“Can and did. Do.” He corrects.

“So you’re fine if he dies, now?”

“I’ve always been fine if my enemies die. The problems always lay with when they rise.” Bilbo can feel the buzzing, slow quality of the dreamscape in the back of his mind. He starts to fight it. Onyx can feel it immediately.

“Stop that.” He snaps. Bilbo smirks and presses all the harder.

“Don’t push me, boy.” Lips pull back over fangs.

“Why not?” Onyx takes a step forwards.

“Because you’ll regret tearing a part of your mind asunder.”

“Well, Lord knows I’ll just never get over that, now will I?” Bilbo’s sarcastic tone of voice is made genuine by the leaves of the trees turning black and red. Bilbo has breached the first level of the dreamscape. Onyx pushes him in an attempt to disrupt Bilbo’s concentration. The red dragon smirks and pushes right back.

“For god’s sake, Bilbo, stop this!” Onyx is an incubus. He’ll be fine. He shouldn’t care about Bilbo, so the Reaper will just keep pushing until he gets something substantial.

“Why do you care, Onyx?”

“It doesn’t matter!” The older reaper charges Bilbo. He ducks, just narrowly avoiding the fist but catching the bulk of the body instead.

“Yeah, because destroying my work is just not cause for acknowledgement.”

“Are you hiding something?” Bilbo blocks a blow from a materialized sword with his own rapier. He lunges forwards with a jab.

“Do you feel different than you’re letting on? Does it hurt when I do this?” his taunting, mad questions are accompanied by the pomegranate tree trunk shaking and groaning, threatening to crack under the pressure of Bilbo’s increasingly unstable presence.

He blocks another three blows, his not-quite-imagined need for oxygen forcing him to breath more and speak less.

“What do you care about Winter? He can reap without his memories.”

“You-” another lunge from Onyx knocks his rapier into the air. “-should know-” The long, elegant sword reverses directions in mid air and begins to return to Bilbo’s red hand. Onyx is faster, and Bilbo looses his grip once more. This time, the sword disappears.

“Better than anyone what a mesmer means! Don’t be such a child!” Bilbo half bares his teeth, half smirks at Onyx.

“Is that how you see me? As a child?”

“Two hundred and fifty years, and you’re still prone to fits of temper! All the work you put towards being a reaper but you still lash out at the first stirring the Lavender Isles made.”

“Two hundred and fifty years, and you still feel it necessary to speak to me as though I have no idea what I’m doing!”

“You don’t!”

“I do! This is your problem as much as it is mine! You willingly let him get across the ocean and into Arda! You deliberately let him track me down. he collared me, for god’s sake! Do not-” Here Bilbo gets a fresh burst of dream strength. He pushes back against Onyx and his sword appears in his hand once more. “Speak to my control! I had every right to kill Winter. The only reason I didn’t is because I knew what you wanted.” Bilbo’s voice has lowered into a hushed whisper.

“If you did not see fit to handle Winter without my involvement, that is your responsibility.”

“You owe me.” Onyx says with a nod at Bilbo’s chest. In his physical form, Bilbo wears the crystal Onyx gave him. It did not come without a price.

“Is this what you want to spend it on?” Debt is a combination of contract and money among reapers; Bilbo can no more refuse Onyx than Onyx can force Bilbo to give up his hold on Winter.

“Yes.” the ruined scene of pomegranates around them shifts to the waystation Bilbo travelled to to meet Onyx. In the arm chair by the fire rests the dark reaper’s prone, empty form. The two traverse the room and reach the back, where Bilbo’s pale albino of an enemy rests in deep, troubled sleep.

“Release your hold on him.” Bilbo turns his burning gaze to Onyx’s.

“If I see him again, he will not live to regret it.” Onyx nods, tense. Bilbo can technically refuse to lift his hold; his stake in Winter’s obliviousness is high enough that Bilbo has equal, if not greater, weight in the decision. It will generate more debt, of course, but still. The reaper has been known to act first and pay later.

In a moment of absolute stillness, Onyx and Bilbo watch from the safety of a dream as Winter tosses and turns. Abruptly, he snaps his fingers together, the loud, singular sound cutting through the not-quite-peace.

Winter’s body arches as his mouth opens in a scream. Bilbo watches until he collapses back onto the bed, now wide awake and terrified. He gets his knees underneath him and unearths a knife from inside of his loose clothing. He swings his head wildly, looking for the cause of the nightmares and the things he didn’t know about a moment ago.

Bilbo turns to go, only to realize that, between the moment he snapped and now, Onyx has disappeared, briefly leaving the dream to enter the bedroom. Winter’s gaze focuses on Onyx’s tall, broad frame.

“He mesmerized me.”

“You collared him.” The conversation is almost watery, as Bilbo is merely seeing them through a dream.

“I’m going to kill him.” Winter attempts to get out of bed.

“You won’t. He’d hang you.”

“He’s cursed.”

“So am I, but an attack on either one of us would cost you your sanity at the least.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because what I told you is absolutely true.” The last part seems to stop Winter where he couldn’t be stopped before. The warrior sinks down onto the bed and stares off into space. Onyx strides forwards and places a hand on his pale head. The great reaper kneels down and looks up at him.

“I’ll ask you one more time: do you want to be trained as a reaper?” Winter stares off into space for a moment before nodding. Onyx copies the motion.

“Good. Now, sleep…” As the strength falls away from Winter’s now unconscious body, Onyx lays him back against the pillows before leaving the room. A moment later he appears beside Bilbo.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“You know how to reach me, should you need me.” Quite abruptly, the scene dissolves into a soft, gentle black.

Bilbo lets himself be lulled away with it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... watcha think?


	30. Obsession, Euphoria, Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets caught up in his thoughts.

The morning dawns bright and clear, though their mission is anything but, at this point. Bilbo stands, quietly, on the edge of the forest. A hair’s breadth more, and he’d be underneath the farthest reaching branches. Another few steps after that, and he’d be in the forest proper. he doesn’t seem to be able to move forwards.

The dwarves are watching him; if Bilbo is hesitant, then the forest must be much sicker than anyone actually know. Abruptly, he seems to get over it, because he starts to shift into a smaller form. In a few moments, the dwarf version of Bilbo takes a step, then another until he’s in the forest. He raises his eyes to the company, all of which have already stepped under the trees.

“Ready.” Thorin nods, deciding not to comment on the fact that Bilbo is just as striking as a dwarf as he is in any other form.

…

The problems start around what Thorin thinks is midday. Bilbo’s eyes had stayed determinedly fixed on the back of a dwarf’s head the entire time, though whose head it was has shifted over the course of hours. Now, Bilbo will not stop glancing into the forest.

Every time he does, he step is an irregular one.

“Oi.” He says, getting Bilbo’s attention. Dark brown eyes swing back to Thorin’s blue ones and stay there, albeit rather unsteadily.

“Eyes on me.” Bilbo nods, hunching his shoulders further against the poison behind him. Thorin wishes Bilbo could just shift into something small but durable and ride around in Thorin’s pocket all day, but that won’t work; this is the Mirkwood. Not everything makes it out of here in one piece.

By evening, Bilbo seems more worn than he did when he was recovering from his fight with the mystery dragon. He sits next to Thorin, hunched over in displeasure, and stares into the flames. It’s a silence the dwarves know better then to break.

Bilbo can’t help but think that, should he be caught by what’s killing this forest, he’ll die and they’ll die and then they’ll all be raised but Bilbo wouldn’t; you can’t “raise” a reaper as old and as experienced as he is. No, Bilbo would come back as a Necromancer. Everything he keeps under control (as well as he can) would be let loose. The thought scares him.

He wouldn’t be as afraid if he wasn’t collared. Stupid Onyx, deciding to test him. The collar, which saps part of his control, keeps him on a leash, and it is dangerous to wander into this forest with one on. He’s got to stop thinking about this. he really does.

With some effort, He turns his thoughts to his family and what will happen after the quest.

The Lavender Isles are actually about a quarter of a circular archipelago. The cluster opposite is the Barren Isles, whose rightful name is actually Lilac. Those isles are populated by nearly everyone who left Lavender.

Bilbo used to wonder, a long time ago, how a city of hundreds could be so afraid of the fifty or so Cursed that lived in Lavender. He used to ask himself how powerless individuals could invoke such hate. Then he met Lock, and Lock opened his eyes.

The dragon, long experienced in traveling, had shown him Lilac. He had brought him to the Matriarch there and let the woman do her thing. It was magical, to say the least. Bilbo had never been among so many who were either content to let him be or wanted to be friends. At the end of the week they spent there, Lock asked him if he wanted to stay. Bilbo said yes.

The next day they left and Lock made Bilbo wait for four months before asking again. At the end of that time, Bilbo understood why: it’s a fool that gives his loyalty to a city that did not care before- that knew of his existence and left him to rot there. They would have let Bilbo hang in the noose of his engagement. For all the magic of Lilac, they left him in his thirty seven years of need. That doesn’t deserve his loyalty or his affiliation, paltry as it was then.  

His siblings, now they aren’t so straight forwards. Neither is his father, now that he thinks about it. As the Patriarch and his family, they are bound by everything they are to keep Bilbo under lock and key. It’s by a stroke of genius that the lock was really very rusty.

He thinks he should have seen this coming- after all, one of the von Thorn children must take over, and it’s been like that for six generations. With every passing patriarch, the pedestal keeps getting higher, and pedestals are no place to raise children. Bilbo thinks that none of them will be ready when Victor dies. No, the power will pass from the von Thorn house, as it is meant to do.

This blood bath that’s on the horizon, now… that’s another thing entirely. Bilbo doesn’t like it, the obvious buildup is abnormal. Patriarchy, by design, is not supposed to stay in one house- it’s supposed to leave when whoever holds power is unable to produce an suitable heir. It’s been like that for thousands of years, so the days of killing every time a new house is chosen is long gone. Especially the killing of those who don’t have a chance of receiving power.

Bilbo’s been paying attention for most of his life (barring the last fifty years). There has always been a dragon with news. There’s always been a seer who owed him, so he’s been able to see his family on and off. He very little could have changed in the last fifty years. Even the oldest of this newest generation that he knows nothing about is still too young to be of consequence. Bilbo crosses them from the list of people who could be gunning for his family and moves on to what he knows.

There are four main families in the Lavender Isles. The von Thorns are the current ruling house. They are also of no consequence, since Victor is the only capable Patriarch among them, and his father is growing old. All of his siblings are too old for this as well, so even if one of them did take over after Victor, the fix would be too temporary for much of anything.

The house that held power previously is the du Trons. They’re the sister house of the von Thorns, and have been viewed as lesser for a while now, since Lock’s days of terrorizing Lavender took out some of their most powerful members. Bilbo wouldn’t put it past them to decide to turn the tables by inciting a bloody Passage, rather than a peaceful one. Besides, the du Trons have always been advocates of the harshest forms of containment for Cursed like Bilbo.

The di Cons are next, but they’re rather nonviolent, for a dragon house. Still, it would take a major, aggressive leap for them to draw abreast to the du Trons, so they could have motive. All in all, though, they still don’t measure up to the du Trons in terms of both mettle and ferocity (that’s reserved for being attacked, rather than staging them).

Lastly de Leons are more primed than the du Trons, but, again, just as gentle as the di Cons. Bilbo’s not sure what their stake would be. As it stands, power would pass to them, but they don’t need a bloodbath. they don’t need to prove anything by hunting Bilbo down. They have no truck with a scarcely seen, formerly presumed dead, long gone black sheep of a different family. That isn’t to say that they have no dog in this fight; they’ll wind up just as bloody if this thing that’s happening progresses.

Bilbo shakes his head. He’s getting nowhere just thinking about houses. Individuals it is, starting with his ex. Winter is the godchild of Vivid de Leon, current head of the household. He’s also the orphan son of a man killed during a skirmish with the Lilac Isles. His mum passed a while later. When Bilbo heard that originally, he wondered if he’d be kinder, because Bilbo’s mother died to, albeit more violently than the Fade*.

Winter himself might see hunting Bilbo down as a thing of pride, but he would not dare go against the von Thornes, since Victor can dissolve the engagement (it might not count here, but, inside Lavender, it most definitely does). The de Leons have no reason that Bilbo knows of, given their position of natural inheritance of the Patriarchy (or Matriarchy, what with Vivid as the head), so maybe whoever trained Winter has a problem. The man’s a soldier, though, and about to kick the bucket. He’s too old for this shit, too.

Victor would want Bilbo to stay gone- it’s better of the both of them if he does, so he shouldn’t want him back. The head of the du Tron house is Chrysanthemum, very firebrand, very possible. Pool di Con is too mild and hasn’t enough sway to make Winter travel out here. God, he’s getting nowhere. He never gets anywhere. Maybe it’s his fault. Maybe it’s-

“Bilbo.” The dragon snaps out of his thoughts. the very same have dragged him down into a dark hole of depression before. Bilbo finds this hysterical. It had plagued him, back when he was little. The depression was one of the reasons he had sought to change his fate, all those years ago. So he left with a dragon he didn’t know and found euphoria. The more he saw, the more he wanted. So the more he got. Then, as he learned the ins and outs, he fell into the pattern of obsession that comes with hunting down a Necromancer and killing him. He’s been in the cycle ever since.

Obsession, euphoria, depression.

Bilbo lays his head down on his knees and stares into the fire they have somehow gotten to be near.

He should have never been a reaper. Then he wouldn't be here. None of them would, because he never would have left Lock on his own. Lock never would have plunged off the damn cliff he fought to stay on for so long.

He never should have been a reaper.

 


	31. Dire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the spiders and the thranduil.

When it happens, Bilbo is just as delirious as the dwarves are. Spots dance at the corners of his vision. They morph into little fae and venomous creatures. He ignores them, because they’ll drag him away. His dwarves are gone. yes. That’s the important thing- his dwarves have run off and now he has to find them because this forest has done horrible things to dwarves on more than one occasion.

So Bilbo steps off the path to find them and immediately throws up into the shrubbery. It’s so much worse away from the path…

He runs towards where he thinks he saw Ori’s scarf last. His vision focuses and defocuses, his stomach riots, and he vomits once more before he’s done; he hasn’t been eating a whole lot for exactly this reason. He stumbles and catches himself against a tree as his dwarven pupils dilate in both directions.

He’s not aware he’s making sound until he turns around to fight whoever it is that just grunted. God, he’s going to get himself caught. Quickly, he locates his dwarves and finds them… in spider sacs. That’s just great. Bilbo knows better than to shift into a more useful form to reach them. He decides that he’s going to fuck Onyx up for this collar thing.

He looks at a tree and decides to make a distraction. He breathes for a moment, both aware that he has time for this; the spiders will not consume his dwarves immediately. Besides he needs to make this believable. After about a minute of just breathing, he’s able to conjure a very realistic version of his hobbit form, standing across from him, plump and worn, but still hobbit-y in nature.

He makes the creature climb a tree, throw a rock, and run off through the forest. The spiders won’t be able to tell when his creation jumps on thin air, only that he is moving. Quickly, Bilbo himself scales the tree and begins to cut at webbing. One by one, his dwarves are free, except for the one that was never here.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s strained, quiet call is answered with silence. He whirls around, breathing increased, eyes frantically searching. It hurts to feel here, in this place so clearly dominated by a necromancer. But he forces himself to feel the pulse of subtle magic in everything. His hands burn as though there’s poison in his blood, but Thorin is nowhere to be found- not even his body.

This does two things to Bilbo. It assures him that Thorin is not DEAD, per say, since he’d have been able to feel the lifeless leavings of a dwarf who he shares a bed with for months now. What it doesn’t to, unfortunately, is assure him that Thorin okay, since he should have been able to sense that, too. This lack of surety has Bilbo turning and turning, trying to remember the way back to the last place he’d seen Thorin. He doesn’t know, though, because this ground and these trees are twisted something awful. He can barely tell left from right, nevermind where he came from.

In his ever ratcheting panic, he does not feel the spiders drawing near, attracted by the powerful pulses of panic and fear and worry that they can feel. They do not burst- rather they slide out of the camouflage of the trees and into direct battle with his now recovered company. He doesn’t have time for this because he has to find Thorin right now. he has to help him. He has to figure out what’s become of him and the spiders are in the way and suddenly, it makes him angry.

He attacks with the dwarven shortsword, as the evil in this forest would have sensed him use his rapier. He bares his teeth in an agitated, unreasonably focused rage. He gets a shot in at the face of a spider and does as he was taught. Bilbo rakes his sharp, sharp sword diagonally down the face of the many eyed creature. It was the first thing Lock taught him about fighting dirty-

Go for the eyes, boy. See how oriented they are, then.

The spider reels, and Bilbo attacks with the fury of a dragon and the control of a reaper. The spider is dead from a second, deep cleave, this time from the corner opposite. He stabs the next one through the giant mandibles and straight to the brain.

The next one is cut from the crown of it’s head to the bottom of its torso. The one after that bleeds out from its four severed legs. Bilbo does not remember the rest, but he remembers the elves.

They surround him and march him forwards. He is barely aware of the other dwarves near him, just that they are not bleeding and not dead and that’s going to have to do for now. They’re dragged and shoved through the forest and into the elve’s stronghold and into the throne room.

Bilbo is unaware of the line of questioning going on around him because, as he sensed through these ancient walls, there is Thorin, snarling at whatever the elven king has gone. Finally, finally, his trance is broken, and, for the first time, he is up in arms as well. he considers the merit of what he’s about to do, but it’ll fucking stop the progression of this. He raises his dark dwarven eyes and sees Thranduil’s proud face for the first time, eyes burning.

It’s a subtle pressure, but the elf feels it. One of these dwarves is not a dwarf. He looks at each- their angry faces silent in this moment. One of the blondes, Thranduil thinks. His eyes lock onto the one with the dark eyes. Every dwarf is angry. Everyone has purple half moons painted under their eyes. But this one is different.

He’s staring directly at Thranduil in a way that makes the elf think this creature can feel Thranduil’s aura. The corner of that mouth tips up. Oh. That is enough.

“What business do you have here, fae?” He says in Sindarin.

“They are mine.” The creature- the shapeshifter, Thranduil is sure- says.

“They have trespassed; I’ll do what I like.”

“You won’t.” Thranduil paces around to the side of the group, where the shapeshifter holds his gaze unflinchingly.

“What’s to stop me?”

“My life.” That’s when Thranduil sees it. A ring of black underneath the scarf and the furred coat.

“You can’t leave either. In fact, I think I’ll just keep you here until the Mirkwood makes you too weak to fight. Then, we’ll see how well you fight.” Thranduil says, as serenely as ever. his thin mouth pulls back into a snarl.

“Touch them, and I will remove your heart and leave it stuffed in your mouth for your people to find in the morning.” Burning eyes dig holes into Thranduil’s own blue orbs. he gets the specific sense that this creature means it- that whatever he is, he’ll do it and do it well. As irritating as it is to heed, he knows he has to. Careful eyes cast over the other dwarves, including the dwarven king.

He looks to his elves.

“Lock them up in the lower levels. Leave this one.” He gestures to the shapeshifter, and the rest are taken, kicking and screaming, away. When there is only the two of them, Thranduil examines the creature more closely.

“What are you?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t know why you’re here, but I will make you suffer the time. After all,” here, his voice takes on a devious little lilt, “you can’t actually leave.” He gestures at the shapeshifter’s neck, where the collar hides.

He’s right, of course. There’s very little Bilbo can do in this rather dire situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took forever to write.


	32. Down the Hatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and the dwarves make their escape.

Bilbo shifts slightly as the guard walks purposefully away from his cell, gone to report. Aside from the hourly check-in, Bilbo is left alone; any sent to guard him can and will have an unfortunate break of the mind. It has been weeks of this, and Bilbo cannot find his people.

He opens his eyes, staring at the stone, feeling the manacles Thranduil has attached to him. Then he grins, because Thranduil is a fool. As if he wouldn’t know how to pick a magical lock. He runs his tongue over the roof of his dry mouth. Here goes nothing.

He shapeshifts his arm, pulling flesh back and back to expose muscles and tendons and a small metal pin. It hurts like a bitch to do this- shift over something inside you. Carefully, he grasps the tiny bulb on the end of the pin and removes it from his arm. Quickly, he switches back to his regular arm. The goop from the inside of his arm makes his stomach turn.

It’s only the emptiness he feels that keeps him from throwing up. He wipes bodily fluids on his clothes and slips the pin inside the manacle. After a few scrapes, he gets the bit of metal into the tumblers. The manacle clicks open with what sounds like an ear shattering click in the dark and quiet.

Bilbo shifts onto the opposite side, takes the pin in the other hand, and works through the inadequately magicked lock until it snaps open. He pulls himself to his feet and braces his hand against the wall. He feels a little dizzy and waits for it to pass. He tugs down the front of his tunic, uncrumpling it as much as he can before stepping over to the bars. He has fifty minutes before they come back down here again.

Sometimes they send another guard by between the regulars, just to throw him off his game. By his estimate, he can maintain the illusion of a body by the wall for twenty three minutes. If he pads time, he has twenty minutes before he needs to be back down here and (yes) back in manacles. He looks down at the pin still clutched between three fingers.

He has to clean that before it goes back in his arm, but he doesn’t have the energy for a cleansing right now. He jimmies the lock on the outside of the bars and opens the silent gate before shoving the pin into his hair and relocking the great iron thing previously between him and his freedom.

He glances at the two empty manacles and quickly conjures an image of himself, much the way he was before. Then he shapeshifts into a tiny mouse and disappears. He has twenty minutes. The collar, which shifted with him, is a heavy weight on his neck as he tries to shift through the aura of this sick place and its immortal inhabitants to find his people.

He ventures out of the deep, roughhewn tunnel and around the corner, only to see another guard coming his way. He crouches and keeps his breathing even as the elf passes by the invisible shapeshifter and turns down Bilbo’s tunnel.

Oh. The guard smells like his company. The scent’s maybe an hour old. It’s better than trying to find the dwarves using his own severely impaired senses. He darts to the other side of the hallway where the guard had walked by just a moment ago.

He follows the scent trail, retracing the steps. In ten minutes, he has ventured onto a higher floor, but it’s still relatively deep underground. He has to head back now, he knows, because he needs to sleep and recharge again. He’ll have to do something about his endurance, because one does not plot in twenty minute windows.

…

Thorin stares at the wall, waiting. He has no doubt that Bilbo will come wandering down that hallway. What he also doesn’t doubt is that Thranduil will be here.  Sure enough, several days later, guards come to collect them one at a time and bear them to the throne room separately.

When it is Thorin’s turn, he stares straight ahead and doesn’t react as Thranduil peppers him with questions about his shapeshifter friend. Only when his people, his father, and his mother have been insulted does Thranduil realize that he’ll get nothing from the dwarf.

When Thorin is back in his cell, an amused voice speaks from the shadows.

“He’s losing his touch.” Thorin turns to look.

Knotted hair touches the small of his back, but that is the only sign that Thranduil has been treating him badly. Which means that Bilbo is hiding something. Thorin will push him for it later, though. For now, he opens his arms and accepts the tall mass of flesh that falls to his knees and locks arms around Thorin’s waist and squeezes.

The dwarf king cradles Bilbo’s head in his hands and runs his thumbs over the illusioned cheeks of his lover.

“Where have you been?”

“Three floors down. Listen. I have a plan, and it involves a lot of wine.”

“Aye, I’ll bet you do.” Bilbo laughs quietly into Thorin’s dirty furs before he’s being pushed back slightly. Thorin presses a kiss against Bilbo’s mouth and rubs against the shell of his pointed ear. The dragon shivers as he leans further into Thorin’s embrace.

Quite suddenly, Bilbo shifts down into nothing and worms his way into Thorin’s clothing. The dwarf wastes no time in confusion, simply flinging himself at the sparse and dirty pallet, adopting the pose he’s had for much of the time.

The guard appears around the corner of Thorin’s cell. The dwarf can hear a tiny, jackrabbiting heartbeat against one of his ribs along with the barely noticeable prick of claws. Thorin ignores the guard, even as he is tempted to look up and into crystalline eyes. The guard, after a few minutes of staring, moves off. Damn elves.

Carefully, he runs his hand down the left side of his clothing. He stays still while the little ball of heat pulls at hair and skin on its way to his collar. The mouse shifts into a little faerie and grips the silver piercing in Thorin’s ear.

“Be ready in three days. You won’t see me before then. I need to rest.” A latin phrase drifts along with it. Then Bilbo is gone, presumably to tell the others, as he wouldn’t risk the guards overhearing what will happen. Thorin gets up and walks himself through imaginary sword movements. He should probably be ready too.

…

Three days later, Bilbo makes no secret of his activities. He picks his locks with the efficiency of familiarity. He sheds the image of a dwarf and walks, tall and proud, up his passage way. For the most effective power, he wears no illusions. He comes across an elf with blond hair and grips his jaw in his hand, mesmeric eyes stopping all violence.

“Go as you will and forget my face. You saw a blonde dwarf sleeping in his cell.” He lets go of the elf and moves on. This festival has a great deal of wine. Most of the elves will be at it. There are only a few that will stay sober, and no elf is powerful enough to defeat Bilbo’s own unbridled power.

He makes the dwarves’ hallway and unlocks their cells one by one. Their elven guard has abandoned his post, like most of the fools in here.

“Where are we going?” Thorin asks as Bilbo and the dwarves dart up a floor and head towards the kitchens.

“You’ll see.” Bilbo’s mouth twists into a grimace. He doesn't like his plan. Still. Better  this than revealing the extent of his power to anyone, especially Thranduil. While the elvenking would not dare to hold he and his, it’s reaper law to stay as hidden as possible, regardless of the situation.

Bilbo ushers them past a weapons cubby, where the dwarves things were stowed. It’s the best he can do for their things. His own staff is elsewhere in the stronghold. He will have to recover it before they leave.

Finally, thirty minutes after they reach the great storage room with all the wine barrels, Bilbo gestures to the empty ones, stacked and ready to be deposited into the river.

“Get in the barrels.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”  Bilbo says if he tells them that he’s about to drop them all into the river, they’ll protest. Better to let them decide whether or not they trust him. He strides off, shifting quickly into the form of a faerie. He zips of the hallway, following the aura of his staff.

Oh. Okay then. he’s found his staff, but it’s behind a door that guards a room often occupied by Thranduil himself. Bilbo knows what room it is, of course. He’s been reaping here for far too long not to know where Thranduil’s study is located.

He grasps the handle and throws the door open, disabling whatever magic Thranduil has here. On a big, lovely table is his staff, sitting on a stand, undoubtedly the subject of much poking, prodding, and testing.

Bilbo grasps it, only to have green ropes of magic wrap around and hold his forearm. Ooh. So Thranduil has not completely underestimated him. Of course, he is a dragon, reunited with the excess power in his staff, so breaking the ropes is possible where it wasn’t before.

Bilbo whirls around and, staff in hand, strides away, fully aware that he has a few minutes. He hurtles along the halls, subtlety all but gone, as various merry making elves feel or hear his presence, though his anonymity is protected by his glamour.

When he gets to the storage room with the wine, all the dwarves are ready.

“Where did you go?!” Dwalin shouts, now thoroughly out of patience with everyone and everything. Bilbo, back in dwarven form, holds up his staff as he hears a dozen pairs of feet race to their position.

“Brace yourselves!” Then, as the dwarves, weapons and all, duck back into their barrels, Legolas, Thranduil, and company make the doorway, only to see the last of the barrels fall. Bilbo turns and, after offering a one finger salute, falls along with them.

It’s the last bit of humor he gets for a while.

 


	33. River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivers suck, according to Bilbo.

Water. It smacks him in the face and all along his body as he plummets beneath the freezing river’s surface, already mid shift. Though the elves shoot at the water, they know he’s already gone.

The river bears him quickly toward his dwarves, already some ways away. Bilbo puts on the speed, using the fins of the fish body he’s shifted into to catch up to them. He’s about to join them and make his presence known when the first arrow flies, skimming by Oin’s face. Bilbo can sense it just a few meters away on shore. An orc (this one living) has come to chase his people.

All at once, there seems to be dozens of them. As another arrow flies, Bilbo pushes himself up out of the water with a powerful thrust of of his tail. As he goes, he shifts from a small, streamline river fish to a great human hybrid. His legs, still a tail, gleam silver with scales while his anal, pectoral, and pelvic fins are all tinted red on the ends.

He catches the arrow mid-flight and disappears beneath the cold depths once more. Another orc lobs a rusted and disgusting cleaver at Kili, only to be caught and aimed at the orc that threw it. He is dead before he hits the ground. This, Bilbo recognizes, is useless. He can stay in the water all he wants to, but in the end his enemy is on land.

He starts the fast, shallow concave arc and bursts from the water. Before his foot touches ground he is a sodding, angry elf, annihilating everything in his path with his staff alongside actual elves, who seem to think they get to fire on the company. They fall with a blow to the back of the head as Bilbo lethally strikes down the orcs on the rocky bridge and dives for the other side.

Black blood spews over him and gets into his hair as he sees his company fighting and aiming at those around him from the river. With the elves unconscious and the orcs straight dead Bilbo takes another dive and transforms back into his merman form. Water is better than orc blood.

The river peters out, as do their enemies (if one can call being assassinated by a shapeshifter petering). Bilbo’s smaller fins reflexively push him through the water, the steady brush of them against his scales the only disturbance, now.

As soon as the water gets shallow enough, he pushes the barrels closer to the shore. When the last one- Gloin’s- scrapes over rocks and pebbles, Bilbo builds momentum and launches himself up out of the water, liquid sluicing off him as he shifts from fins to legs. Half the dwarves are already out of their barrels.

He takes a few steps before deciding that, yep, he’s gonna do it. He shakes himself from head to toe, throwing droplets of the hated water everywhere. It doesn’t stop the shivering, but he’s less wet, now. The dwarves apparently think his action a good idea, because, everyone who saw it follows his lead. What dwarves who didn’t see do as their comrades did.

Bilbo can feel a headache behind his eyeballs and in the front of his head as he makes his way back to the dwarves. His hands are cold. Of all the things he hates, cold hands are right up there with Malcolm.

“I need to go and reap them.” He says when he gets within hearing range and haul Kili’s barrel closer to shore. Thorin turns a cold and practiced eye on him. He can practically see the gears turning in his head, deciding if Bilbo’s  being unnecessary.

“Very well.” He says after a few seconds of silence.

“The lakeman will be here to collect the barrels. If he is not old, it is his son, in which case, show him this.” As he spoke, Bilbo had dug around under his tunic until he unearths what appears to be an amulet. Thorin’s seen it before; it’s something Bilbo never takes off for any reason.

“What’s it mean?” An eight pointed star is emblazoned onto the dull circular plate.

“It’s the mark of my mentor’s line.”

“You’re blood related?” Dwalin asks from where his hand’s wrapped in the back of Ori’s tunic mid-haul.

“No. Reaper lines refer to mentor and student. Very rarely is any blood actually involved.” Thorin nods and takes the thing. The moment it touches his hand, it glows and hums with dormant magic. He decides not to question it; one does not ask questions of magical creatures and artifacts and not step in shit.

“Thank you.” Bilbo, standing at the edge of the water, touches two fingers to his forehead and flicks them away in a semblance of a solute.

“I’ll meet you in Laketown. Show that to no one else. It can get you hanged.” Bilbo falls backwards into the water. Before the full weight of his body hits the water, he shifts, and a little silver fish makes nary a sound as it enters the eddies and flow of the river.

As it turns out, Bilbo was right. After exiting the barrels, the bargeman was along in an hour, just before sundown. Thorin showed him the amulet. For a moment, Bard hardens, suspicion blooming in his eyes.

“Where is the owner?” He seems to be waiting for something, anything.

“Indisposed.” Thorin says. He’ll not give away Bilbo’s position anymore than he would give his own lineage away; it’s something for emergencies only. The eyes of the bargeman sweep over them, trying to decide if indisposed is a call to arms or not.

“Figures. My name is Bard.”

“Thorin.”

“Fili.”

“Kili.”

“Dwalin.”

“Balin.”

“Oin.”

“Gloin.”

“Dori.”

“Ori.”

“Nori.”

“Bofur.”

“Bombur.”

The ancient Khuzdul version of Bifur’s name succeeds that.

“Suppose you’ll be needing passage to laketown?”

“And lodgings, besides.”

“Come on then.” Thorin wasn’t sure what he expected, but the easy acceptance of the bargeman was not it. Thorin decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth and climbs on board. His company follows.

“You won’t be welcome. I suggest you hid in the barrels.” A few groans and low khuzdul curses are all that accompanies this second excursion into the dank wood.

“This won’t do.” Bard says.

“Aye?”

“Weight. We’ll need something to compensate.” The fish that had been sitting in the back of the barge, netted and dead, are unceremoniously distributed along the top of the barrels.

“That’s better.” The company collectively decides not to ask whether or not this is a joke.

“Right. Keep quiet now.” Bard hauls the dwarves and the barrels and the fish across the lake to the town of Esgaroth.

After nearly being caught, they then have to get into Bard’s house via toilet, of all things. Thorin refuses to think of the nastiness that accompanies humans.

In the dark, semi warmth, Thorin watches Bard move around and light lamps. His company is covered in filth and stinking of fish, starved, wet, and on the way to massive headaches, but they are safe, for now, with someone who is apparently familiar with the eight pointed star that Bilbo wears around his neck.

The amulet, now around Thorin’s neck and safe from pickpockets and thieves, seems to burn a hole in his skin. He wants to take it out and examine it some more. He wants to weave it between his fingers.

He sees it every time Bilbo strips, but he’s never thought to look at it before. Now that the dragon is reaping, it calls to him like nothing else.

…

Bilbo trots over the rocky embankments, occasionally switching sides to take care of corpses. He needs to get to these before Malcolm finds them. He looks up to see a red headed elf aiming an arrow directly at him. The reaper raises both hands, fully aware that he could die right now, and rises from the corpse he was kneeling over. It turns to ash as he goes.

“Who are you?”

“No one.” Bilbo says, he starts to move in a curve, and the elf follows.

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Moving!”

“Make me.” It’s highly immature to toy with an elven guard just for shits and giggles, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. He is tired of Thranduil’s incessant plaguing presence.

“I can.”

“But you won’t.”

“I will.”

“But you won’t, because now you’re curious.” A moment of silence, and then:

“What did you do to them?”

“None of your business.”

“Stop playing games, shapeshifter.”

“Stop interfering, elf.” At this point, he’s really not sure why he’s still speaking to the redhead. He could just mesmerize her, and it would be fine. He senses another elf at his back, but before he can turn around, an arrow flies.

He disappears and dodges.

“Legolas!”

“You know what Thranduil said.”

“He’s here for a reason other than the dwarves!” Bilbo stands just far enough away that he can’t be sensed by the elves and watches them argue.

“It doesn’t matter; he’s a danger and he’s been inside our home!”

“Only because he was detained!”

“Detained because he chose to wander the Mirkwood.”

“It’s the fastest way from one side to the other. You know that.”

“Thranduil would have let him go, once he was sure of his purpose.”

“Doubtful. The shapeshifter and the dwarves are too interesting to just be ‘let go’.”

“Regardless, what did you think would happen by letting a shapeshifter so near to you?”

“Maybe some information other than what Thranduil says!”

“Do you really hold so little trust in your own sovereign?”

“I know the forest affects us all in different ways.”

“So what do you want to do? Follow them wherever they go?”

“I…” she doesn’t know. It’s plain as day on her face. She never even expected to be asked the question.

“You cannot just go off and do what you like because ‘the forest affects us all’.” That it does. Bilbo thinks as he wanders further upstream, leaving the elves to work out their little problem.

He briefly considers travelling back to the Mirkwood to inform Thranduil of his opinions concerning his actions, but decides not to. He hasn’t the energy for that, today. He heads for another orc.

He hasn’t much left, now.

 


	34. The Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo feels foreboding.

A week. That’s how long these elves search for him. That’s how long it takes the bargeman to come back. Bilbo watches from the eyes of a little mouse as the barge is pushed and pulled up onto the bank.

A big, burly man jumps down and starts to load barrels onto the flat stern. As he’s loading the last barrel, Bilbo skitters out from his hiding place and stops about a foot away from the rail. The bargeman notices.

“Few mice are so adventurous,” Bard starts as he pushes the last barrel into place, “and very few dwarves would carry a talisman not seen in these parts for more than fifty years.”

“You’re right,” Bilbo says as his shift makes him taller. The form of a hobbit isn’t so big, but it’s a mouse that he’s come from, “dwarves don’t carry talismans.” Bilbo holds up the back of his right hand. On it is the same eight pointed star.

“Bilbo, at your service.”

“My father saw the tail end of your training.”

“So he did,” Bilbo says. As much as he’d like to skip this part, he has never met the bargeman before. As the master of a waystation, Bilbo must pay his respects to the bargeman and gain permission to enter Laketown the first time they meet. As per the near universal terms between Reapers and waystation masters, this must only happen one time, barring the reaper being banned for whatever reason.

The bargeman steps off the barge one more time and walks around Bilbo, surveying his burning eyes and his hobbit body. When he is standing on the other side of the dragon, he holds out his hand.

“Bard.” Bilbo takes it.

“Thank you.” Bilbo helps Bard push the barge back into the water- he had done the exact same thing with his father, before Lock had lost it. As soon as they are afloat and headed to lake town, Bilbo shifts into a little sparrow and disappears among the wood and barrels of the boat.

As he waits for Laketown to come into reach, Bilbo realizes that he is tired. He doesn’t know where Malcolm is. He doesn’t know how the dwarves are doing. He hasn’t seen them in a week. He has spent much of that time working to either render the magic from the orcs unusable or get rid of it entirely. All he wants now is to make sure his dwarves are doing okay, and then curl up in Thorin’s embrace and sleep.

He knows that Lock’s days are numbered. He knows that he is the one doing the numbering. He doesn’t want to face it, but the time has dwindled away to nothing. It’s crushing, these thoughts of his. It’s crushing and exhausting.

It’s cruel, this mess he’s gotten himself in. That’s what it is.

“Laketown.” Bard calls from the bow. Bilbo didn’t realize that he’d closed his eyes.

“Where are they?” a human voice cheeps from the bird’s beak.

“In one of the nicer houses, living on the coin of the Master. Be careful, Reaper. Greed runs rampant here.” Bilbo nods his tiny, fragile head. Greed will attract Necromancers like nothing else.

As the boat touches the edge of the docks, Bilbo lifts off and flits with the rest of the birds over Laketown, following his sixth sense. As Bard said, the dwarves are in one of the nicer houses, which doesn’t say much, considering how poor Laketown is. Not only that, but it’s evening, so they’ll be back from their various duties, soon.

Some of the dwarves are in their rooms already. Bilbo slips inside when the door opens. He finds that Kili has been wounded. He barely stays the noise he makes. He did not know of this. Thankfully, it is not a  poisoned wound, but all the same. He morphs into a cat and rubs against the prince's hand. For a moment, he and Oin, who sits with him, stare. They both sets of hands are running down his back as they recognize their missing member.

After about ten minutes of this, Bilbo rises and departs. He tracks down Thorin’s room and hops onto the bed to wait. he closes his eyes for a moment.

The next thing he knows, big, thick hands are passing over his back and rubbing along his fur. He arches his back automatically and shifts up into a larger form after noting that it is, in fact, long after sunset. Oh, he hadn’t realized that he’d ever fallen asleep.

Thorin’s hands are still on his hobbit back. He leans closer and presses his mouth against the dwarven king’s for a long, long moment.

“What took so long?”

“I needed to be careful with the land; the forest is too sick for any less time to be spent on its surroundings.”

Thorin’s careful hands push him down, and Bilbo goes willingly. After a moment, the dwarf joins him in nothing but his leggings. Bilbo curls into the solid warmth of his stomach and chest and closes his eyes, content once more. He might bring hell tomorrow, but for the night, he has Thorin, and he can sense each dwarf in their rooms as well.

It’s more than he can really ask for.

…

The next day, the boat departs to the edge of Laketown. Bilbo exists as a small bird attached to Thorin’s shoulder. His presence, and the power they know he carries inside of him, is a reassuring thing.

The boat touches shore, and Bilbo is relieved as they trade water for dry land. Fuck water. He hates it with a passion and for a reason. Bilbo morphs from a bird to a dwarf, and makes the many hour trek in a body indistinguishable from his counterparts.

By the time they reach the foot of the mountain, Bilbo begins to feel sick. With such a large horde inside Erebor, the sickness that drove Thrain mad and attracted an insane reaper can be felt by Bilbo out here. He knows, as he beds down as far away from the mountain as he can feasibly be, that he won’t be able to reside long within it- though the rest of the dwarves can and will.

Bilbo briefly considers warning them away, but this is their home- their long lost home, courtesy of Bilbo himself. He cannot find the heart to comment on its illness, specifically since they shouldn’t feel it like the reaper does.

Once more, he sleeps under the arm of Thorin, his natural higher temperature attracting both Fili and Kili. Before he sleeps, he sends a prayer up to what deities may care for the prayers of a reaper and a dragon prince that his people be protected from the sickness within.


	35. Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo remembers some more.

The gaping tunnel greets him in a mocking manner. He wandered all sorts of places when he was a younger reaper. Tunnels like this had treasure at the end every time. Whether or not that treasure tried to kill him was a different matter entirely. Now, the only treasure is the murder of his mentor. Mahal.

Bilbo shifts into a little mouse once more and skitters off down the passageway. He winds through tunnels he was familiar with, once upon a time. Now, they are ghostly memories.

When he reaches the treasure hoard, he straightens on the backs of his little feet and sniffs. There. He hops from coin to coin, heading closer all the time to the dragon that replaced his mentor. Quite suddenly, the pile starts to shift. Quickly, Bilbo shifts into the form of a cat and slinks behind a pillar. He doesn’t wish to be seen just yet.

“I can smell you, thief,” says the dragon, uncoiling and straightening as a great deal of coins shift and shimmer as they fall down the slopes the dragon creates. Bilbo crouches next to the stone, clinging to it as the great serpentine head swings into view.

“Not only are you a thief, but you are also a liar.” With that, the dragon lets loose a string of fire. Bilbo darts out of the way just in time.

“You behave as though I wouldn’t recognize my own apprentice,” another burst of fire causes another mad dash.

“You cower, as though I did not train you better.” This is what does it. Bilbo shifts out of his cat form and back to his humanoid one. He spreads red wings and flies to dwell directly in front of his nostrils.

“And you spew fire and poison, as though that was ever your way of doing things!” Bilbo’s quick and brightly burning anger throws the dragon for a loop. Then he smiles, his great stalactite and stalagmite teeth parting in a gross imitation of humor.

“Ezra von Thorne, you never cease to amuse me,” this admission tells Bilbo that he’s just done something very, very wrong.

“Unfortunately,” here, the dragons ruff begins to glow as fire heats in his throat once more, “It is not I who will die today,” Then Ezra is running, because he needs to draw the dragon from the hoard. He needs room to make the kill, to maneuver. It’s a weakness he smacked his head against again and again as he found himself in particularly claustrophobic places, fighting powerful Necromancers.

The dragon chases him as he morphs into his own jewel bright drake and he makes for the front gates. Into the sky they both shoot. Bilbo does a half, circular dive. Try as he might to turn, years of sleeping on a nest of gold as left Smaug the slower fighter. Bilbo gets his claws into his mentor and just holds on tight as his brick weight pulls them down, down, down. 

He feels the burn of injury, though he can’t pinpoint where. What he does know is that he’s managed to dig a toe into an exposed bit of flesh on his chest. He presses his vantage point as they plummet straight down. 

As the ground draws near, he just barely manages to flip them over, so that it is Smaug’s head that caves as the weight and pressure of a heavy fall, while Bilbo is spared. Only once he knows that the great heart does beat strong enough to retaliate and the mind is no longer clouded does Bilbo let go. He hauls himself around so that he is at his mentor’s head.

He is speared by his own eyes, staring at him from a wasted face.

“Ezra,” he says. He is in his humanoid form, so none can see them, tiny as they are, now.

“Lock.” The dragon smiles a very wan smile. 

“Come here.” Bilbo has no fear; his mentor’s eyes are too clear, now. he will not strike. he leans closer as a burgundy hand comes up to rest against his face. he’s bleeding out and in a lot of pain, but Bilbo cannot bring himself to kill him entirely.

“I… I’m sorry, Mercy.” His eyes close. His heart stops. He gasps once, but that is all. His hand falls. Bilbo- Mercy. Oh, god, he’s been Named- places a hand on Lock’s chest.

“Ashes to ashes… dust to dust,” he forces out the last part. It hurts to let go. Even as the body crumbles into the promise of everlasting peace, he cannot stop the pain spears him from sternum to spine.

When there is no blood left that has not turned to ash and swirled away, he spreads his wings and flies back to the mountain and the sickness within.

…

His foot touches the rock face first, wings folding gracefully behind him. He feels a little empty, now. He distantly takes note of the mountain closing around him. He doesn’t ever remember it feeling this sick.

He makes his way unsteadily down the passage. He shows his face in a rather large room he remembers was once an epicenter for several intersecting hallways. Here, he stops and leans against a wall. It’s hard not to remember, so he doesn’t fight it.

…

_ Dwarves bustle everywhere. Ezra leans quietly up against a wall, waiting for his target to walk by. He’s never really sure which one it is with dwarves; they’re very communal, so the trail often gets muddled.  _

_ A youngish dwarf bounds by. Bilbo can see the ribbons that mark him as a smith in training. He’s got a baby face, or, rather, as baby a face as one can have when one is bearded from the cheeks down. _

_ Ezra knows, as that creature gives him a lurch in his stomach, that it is him Bilbo is waiting for. He pushes off the wall and effortlessly shadows him, following him as he makes his way back to his residence. In the late evening, it is time to turn in for early risers.  _

_ In silence of his lonely abode, Ezra realizes that this is an orphan. Oh, god. He waits in the main room as the dwarf bathes and then dresses for bed. As he tucks in to sleep, Ezra reminds himself that this dwarf has been dead for a while now; he’s just bringing rest. Funny, really, how that doesn’t ever seem to help. _

_ Unnatural eyes close in the darkness. In an easy, fluid movement, Ezra looms like the boogeyman he is and wraps his smooth, long fingers around the dwarves. It’s but a moment before the dwarf’s body is stilled and his soul fully released. _

_ “Ashes to ashes,” Ezra whispers, voice smooth and weightless in a way his mind isn’t, “dust to dust.” They’ll find him dead in his bed tomorrow morning and chalk it up to a weak heart or an accident or strain. They’ll mourn and they’ll bury him a month after he died. _

**_ It chokes Ezra as he makes his way as a small moth out of a crack in the top of the door and wisps above the still wandering dwarves. He has a Necromancer to find and execute. _   
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of the night, guys!


	36. Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wakes up.

What he finds… is apprehension. They’d been looking, waiting, watching, afraid for his life and theirs. Despite his grief, it's nice to know they would have missed him. He sinks onto his pallet, slumping sideways to sleep away the heaviness he feels for a while.

He unfolds a wing and tucks it around him, squeezing it close to feel the heat of unhidden blood pulsing just beneath the surface. Sometime during his sleep, he feels a rough hand snake beneath the thick membrane and rest against his face.

He hears muffled voices through the veil of sleep.

“He’s alright, just tired,” the voice says. He’s not sure what that means. It seems that his ears are open but his mind his not, because something tells him this is a very simple sentence and he should definitely understand, but he’s too tired to wake up fully.

“We’ll have to wake him at some point,” someone says. Again, Bilbo… Mercy? In any case, the dragon does not have the capacity to decipher it; it’s all been dragged down by a great weight. He grows tired of dwelling so close to the veil of sleep and rolls over to shift farther away.

At some point, he feels pressure against his wing, but he doesn’t fight that. He wants to go back to sleep; it’s only been a few minutes.

“It’s been too long.” It’s only been a little bit. He thinks he’s closer to waking than he’s ever been.

“That was his mentor.” What happened to Lock? Lock’s far away right now, on the other side of an ocean, causing trouble with his father and getting into fights with the leader of Lilac. He drifts off again. Lock’s fine. He’s always been fine. He just needs a little help.

When Bilbo wakes up, he vaguely remembers conversations that went on near him. He’s not sure what they consisted of. His eyes aren’t quite open yet, and they feel too heavy. Still. He should check on Thorin. He didn’t see his lover before he went to sleep; too tired.

He hauls himself to his feet, using his wings for balance as he drags all his faculties up from the dredge of sleep. No one is in here, though there’s evidence of a fire and sleep packs are all around.

“Bilbo!” A hissing, echoey voice says. His head swivels, fixing eyes on Ori.

“What’s happened?”

“Everything!” The dwarf grabs his hand- unafraid or shy- and drags him down a hall Bilbo remembers well.

“Ori!”

“Shh!” It’s only when Ori has trotted them past any hallways that have been inhabited by the dwarves that he allows Bilbo to stop. The dragon eyes a dwarf that’s grown on him. He’s thinner that he was when Bilbo slept; soot and dust smudges his clothing, his eyes seem a little dull and a little bright at the same time.

“Ori, are you okay?” he asks carefully, kneeling so that he’s a little above eye level.

“No! I am not okay! No one’s okay! They’re in there going mad over the Arkenstone and they’ve nothing to ground them and I don’t know what to do…” Ori seems to collapse them, his fervor spent as he voices the state of his situation.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Eight days! There’s a fucking army outside the mountain and no one knew how to wake you, but when Oin suggested we get Gandalf, Thorin said Gandalf wanted his treasure. He said you’d be fine- said to let you sleep.” Bilbo’s never heard Ori cuss in his life. He wraps his arms around the dwarf.

“Come,” he says. Then he’s sweeping away deeper into the mountain, the fabric of his coat sweeping behind him as he draws Ori deeper into the mountain. The dwarves may not venture too far into the dark, but Bilbo spent years in it’s shadows; he knows it like the back of his hand.

Steam. That’s the first thing he thinks as Bilbo leads him through a tall, dark stone arch. The floor’s covered in soot and dust, but the water in the pools that Ori can hear steaming is clean. Bilbo lights a long abandoned torch and brings it closer.

He proceeds to strip and wade into the water. At first, Ori doesn’t understand. Then Bilbo turns around and pins him with a cat’s eye gaze. The dwarf joins him. Then, he understands. In this great mass grave, this water is the only thing not bent and twisted by time and grief. It washes through his chest an his uptight muscles, and the dwarf cannot help but relax, despite the situation brewing floors above them.

“How did you know?”

“This is my domain; I know these halls.”

“Oh. How is this going to help, though?”

“The amount of corruption that clings to the walls and the floor and the corpses makes it hard to think. It does not translate into the water.”

“Oh.” The dwarf twists his fingers, needing to go back and see that his brothers are okay, but he cannot leave this sanctuary just yet. He may not be magical, but even he needs this reprieve.

“It’s okay, Ori. Is there a specific jewel he was referring to or was it just treasure in general?”

“He was talking about you. Said you’re a second Arkenstone- that he’d have both and that no wizard would take either of you away. Mahal, there’s elves out there, Bilbo. ELVES!” The squeak in his voice betrays how truly afraid Ori is. He never lets his voice squeak- doesn’t wish to be seen as a child, so he tries not to sound like one.

Bilbo threads his fingers into Ori’s hair.

“You know what I am. I do what I want to do. There's no need to worry about me, and I’ll see if I can’t break this sickness.”

“It’s not that simple- Thorin is attached to the Arkenstone- they all are. They won’t stop until they have it. You can’t make them not want it.”

“You have no idea what I can do,” Bilbo says honestly. He can “stop” the wanting, but he'd rather not. He’d rather do something less drastic. Bilbo holds onto Ori a moment longer. He wishes he could take this ear away, but he cannot; he is not the type to comfort. he’s the type to kill. The dwarf’s pulse is jackrabbiting, his worry and fear pushing him.

Bilbo takes his time and scrubs his fingers across his bare skin, attempting to remove all traces of his…

Oh god.

He remembers, now. He remembers what he did. Promise or no, it still wraps around his ankles and compels him to stay under for far too long; long enough not to remember that he just killed his mentor.

Bilbo shakes his head. Now is not the time to entertain his heart. He turns and helps Ori undo his braids while the dwarf scrubs blunt fingernails along his stocky. When they are done, they stand on the strip of rock regularly washed by the gentle waves until they dry. They have no clothes but the ones they brought. With a mental command, they fly to Bilbo and boot his feet and wraps him up from head to toe. He hands Ori his and watches the archway.

Bilbo clears his throat and walks with Ori back the room the dwarves have camped in before leaving him there. He has a bone to pick with Thorin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. Yes, I know. I didn't update. I've been grounded (just got off it, so...) and the library computer just down on me, so I didn't get another chance to update until just now. In addition to this chapter, there will be a second one out with the rest (hopefully. It's already written, anyways...) So please don't be mad.


	37. To Pick A Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo picks the bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late guys. I was either working or sleeping or sick. Enjoy!

The dragon strides along the corridor, finding his way to the treasury by memory. Entering the mounds of gold and gems is like coming home to a nightmare. It stirs something in his stomach and makes it riot with the need to own this great hoard and the hate he has for the stash that took his mentor’s mind.

“Bilbo!” he turns his head and sees Balin. The old dwarf is sifting through a mound of gold. Bibo realizes one of two things. One: he’s nowhere near as sick as Bilbo thought. Two: he can feel the Arkenstone.

“Evening, Balin,” he says evenly. There’s no doubt that if the old dwarf knew about the anger rushing beneath his skin he would have to go through him and the rest of the company. Best to play it cool, for now. Bilbo doesn’t like to use his magic on friends.

Balin turns from his task and ambles over, face open in a smile, but worry shining in his eyes. He recalls what Ori said not too long ago about him being a second Arkenstone. Bilbo doesn’t know what affection takes him, but for a moment he embraces the hug offered to him.

“Run,” the advisor breathes into his ear. The dragon straightens up, suddenly a lot more angry. What madness causes even those closest to Thorin resort to sneaking about like rats on a cat-infested ship? He sweeps past Balin, the folds of his clothing trailing after him like a dark train.

He passes no more dwarves, as though they believe the Arkenstone to be far deeper than they thought. It occurs to him that Balin must have been waiting for him to wake up.

The clinkle of gold and slipping gems heralds his arrival. He likes it, but at the same time shies away from it. Liking such a thing is very, very dangerous. He can feel Thorin. He is the deepest in the treasury, probably guessing that the Arkenstone is in the heart of all this madness. Burning eyes travel over the different mounds. To any other eye, one looks much like the next. Dragons, however, are very attuned to precious metals and could tell a thousand mounds apart.

It’s a dangerous ability. After a bit of walking, he comes upon Thorin, sifting in a much more focused way than Balin was.

“Thorin.” Bilbo’s voice is as cold as a deeply buried diamond. Thorin whirls around. The frantic, rebelling energy in the king's limbs is pouring out of his eyes, leaping and stumbling around the irises, clouding the pupils.

“Bilbo,” he breathes. Then he shoots across the short distance left between them. Bilbo kneels automatically, opening his arms and receiving the hug Thorin gives in all it’s glory. He wishes it would stay like this.

“Let us leave,” he breathes as he nestles into the crook of Thorin’s neck and breathes in a scent he hasn’t had in some days. He uses it to will down the smouldering feeling beneath his skin. He can keep his calm. He is in control.

Thorin draws back after a time, hands bracketing Bilbo’s face as he stares directly into one of his molten, tri diamond eyes.

“Bilbo…” he breathes.

“Please?” he says. He’ll say anything to get Thorin away from the gold. It’s killing him. He cannot feel its affects the way Bilbo can.

“No.” Thorin says. He draws away and sweeps a broad, callused hand over the mountainous piles. “This is my birthright, Bilbo- this is the birthright of every Ereborian dwarf, there children, their grandchildren, and, in some cases, their great grandchildren. I’ll not leave it now.”

“It’s killing you,” Bilbo says. On his knees, the top of Thorin’s head fits just under his nose. He may as well have risen only to Thorin’s knee at full height, for the smallness he feels at the dwarf’s next sentence.

“A likely story.” Anger burns and tumbles in those blue irises.

“Since when have I ever lied to you about you?” Bilbo questions. If he could just find something- anything- in his lover that was there before, maybe he won’t have to do this.

“Just now. If you can do nothing but speak ill of my people’s inheritance, leave.” The sentence takes Bilbo way, way back.

…

_“What have you done?!” He doesn’t know who roared that first sentence, but he knows it sent chills through him. Ezra whirled around and backed away from the urn. Ancient dragon warriors were painted on its sides. The lovely curve of the handles were solid gold with little runes etched up the sides. It’s said to be magic- to hold the powers of an ancient and powerful patriarch by the name of Love von Thorne. Ezra has broken it; shoved it off its pedestal and shattered the pottery on the marble floor._

_Love von Thorne is one of the few Cursed ever hailed as a hero, and it made him so angry to think that his ancestor got a place of glory and he was stuck being unable to read the fucking latin on the damn handle. He turned to two of his siblings, glaring at them, daring them to punish him before his father found him, to let him know what they think of him before someone else decided to take their piece of his pie._

_“You taint this house,” the brother said. He was two years older than Ezra, and had his Naming three years after the younger was born. Cinder von Thorne took long strides towards Ezra. “You destroy anything you can get your hands on. Then you have audacity to scar one of the few things here you have the right to be proud of,” a shove sent Ezra backwards. He knew it's useless to fight, then. He will anyways._

_Their sister, Ember watched with sad, sad eyes as Cinder shoved Ezra once more and Ezra shoved back._

_“Proud?! I’ll tell you what pride is, brother. Pride is for those who eat at the same table as an equal and not as a damn dog. Pride is for those who had their Naming when they should have. Pride is for those who are wanted. Do not speak to me about what I am allowed to be proud of. As far as I’m concerned, nothing in this house is worth the effort it takes to shit, never mind the pride you insist I’m not allowed to have. “_

_Cinder’s hand whips out, claws at the ready. The long nails of the hand would gorge Ezra’s still cherubic face. The dragon twisted his head and bites the hand. The coppery, spicy taste of blood welled in his mouth around his little teeth as Cinder full on attacked him. He felt hands on him and could see them on Cinder as his older brother inevitably won and pinned him._

_“If you can do nothing but do ill to your own inheritance,” the dragon snarled, “then leave.” the hot breath blows harshly against his face. Ezra stopped struggling at that._

_“If you don’t want me, help,” the look on his face was well worth the fear that curled in his stomach. As hated and unwanted as he was, and as often as he was reminded of it, not a single dragon would dare raise a hand to help get rid of him. After all, if they kill him, they've killed the youngest child of Victor von Thorne. If they got him off the island, than they’ve set a dangerous and potentially powerful Cursed loose to do what he will._

_Ezra might be hated, but his stalemate has given him power that he has worked to his advantage ever since he came up Cursed._

_“You know full well I cannot,” Cinder hisses as Ember’s tugs began to get more insistent._

_“Than quit throwing my presence in my face, your highness,” he sneered, cherubic face tight with anger and burning with intelligence._

_“You destroy priceless history in you temper tantrums, but dare tell me to accept you,”_

_“Enough!” Ember yelled as she put strength behind her tugs and finally separated the two of them._

_“I don’t need you acceptance. You aloofness would do just fine, fool.” Ezra gained his feet and cocked an eyebrow at him, knowing full well he has won. For now._

_“You’re daddy’s favorite, after all,” the devious tint to his voice made even Ember- Ember, who is not so blinded by tradition and influence- stop in her tracks, “maybe you should learn to use your weight. If you care for your precious history, that is.” Ezra whirled around and left, gone to find an empty, bare room to dwell in until his father found what has happened._

_He’s seventy four, today. One year closer to marriage. His growing age had begun to make him furious. He’d gone to the urn to think, but had ended up breaking it. He won’t offer an apology he means for it. He won’t accept anything anyone says about it. If they hadn’t wanted the vase ruined, they wouldn’t have put it within reach. According to common belief that it’s the Cursed’s family’s job to control his actions, after all_

_Then next day, he was moved out of the main house and into his own, near bare pavilion. So Cinder took him up on his challenge, after all._

__

…

Thorin’s words set him off and give him the fresh anger he needs to walk right up to the dwarf, grab his hair, and force him to make eye contact. He is, after all a mesmerist, and that kind of thing works best through the eyes.

“Thorin,” this is dangerous, and he knows it, but the dwarf king is gone, and war is on the horizon. Something must change.” The glow of molten eyes captures Thorin in an endless sea of nothing and everything and heat. “When you next sleep, I want you to forget. Forget you ever had gold sickness. Forget your hatred. Be averse to trusting elves and men, but remember your promises and hold tight to your honor.”

Bilbo lets his head go and wraps his arms around Thorin, breaking eye contact and his mesmerism. The dwarf stiffens, about to push him away.

“I’m sorry, Thorin,” he says, referring to the gold.  

“It’s… alright,” he’s never known Bilbo to give anything up so easily.

“Aren’t you tired, love?” he says, the far less potent version of his powers suggesting that Thorin go ahead and cat nap for a bit before he gets back to digging for gold.

“Y… yes.” Thorin says, finally. Bilbo rises and follows the king back through the piles of gold.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Thorin says to Balin, still sifting gold by the entrance. The snowy dwarf nods his head and sets off the collect the others. It’s only hours after the fact, when the dwarves sleep heavily and snore soundly and even Thorin is too dead to the world to register anything that Balin rises and goes to Bilbo.

“What have you done?!” He’s angry and relieved and confused and scared, all at the same time.

Bilbo looks at Thorin, leaning against him in sleep. He closes his eyes.

“Something very, very dangerous.”

 

 


	38. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets confrontational. And princely. And doubtful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, guys! Couple questions:  
> 1) if I wrote a crossover/multiverse thingy, would anyone read it?  
> 2) What do you do with a tumblr blog for your AO3 account?

Bilbo strides through the elven camp, stride powerful, body invisible, aura impossible to ignore. He lifts the flap of the tent that Bard and Thranduil are meeting in and ducks inside. Though the guards sense him, they do not and can not stop him. 

Bilbo watches as the elf and the wizard both look at him. It takes Bard a moment to figure out where this difference he cannot see is coming from.

“Ah, Ezra. I’m glad you’ve decided to join us.” Gandalf says, dry irony in his voice prompting a low laugh from Bilbo. 

“So glad to be here,” he responds with equal sarcasm. He drops his glamour, tanned skin mostly covered by black attire. His hair- long and wild and black- has been left untouched. 

“Who are you?” Bard says. He gets the sense that the creature actually looks very different from the way he presents himself. The danger, though. That’s all real.

“My name is Ezra, and I have a proposition for you.” Thranduil gestures to the empty chair, but Bilbo just shakes his head.

“And what proposition would that be?” the king says. Bilbo ignores the look Gandalf gives him. He looks worries. He should be. Ezra broke the Reaper’s code and turned his powers against one uninvolved in Necromancy and for a purpose other than to protect his identity/movements. He may very well find himself on the receiving end of punishment, once other Reapers catch wind of what he’s done. They again, it wouldn’t be the first time a reaper used their abilities to combat a different kind of sickness, so they may not even warn him. 

He does, after all, have some one hundred and fifty years of experience under his belt. He’s no apprentice or freshly minted Reaper on a power trip or in need of reminder of the consequences that come from playing with a mind.

He takes a step forward so that he’s just inches from the edge of the table.

“When you next see the dwarvenking, he will not remember a thing from your previous meetings. He won’t remember denying you the white gems. He won’t remember insulting you. He’ll ask you to fight with him against the orcs. The both of you will agree.

“When and if you do, you,” here he nods to Thranduil, “will receive the white gems you so wish to have. And you,” he turns to Bard, “will have enough gold to rebuild Laketown and Dale.”

“And if we don’t?” Bard says. The offer’s tempting, but creatures so obviously magic and powerful are not to be trusted on principle. 

“Then you don’t, and far more people will die when the orcs come.”

“What are you?” Thranduil says. He breathes it, really, crystalline eyes narrowed and focused. Strong, dark eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Bilbo crooks up a corner of his mouth. 

“What I am does not matter.” Thranduil sits back, thoroughly offended and ready to wrangle with Bilbo.

“Why should I? Elves can do without the white gems. Even if we could not, there are thirteen dwarves, and a siege would not be hard.” Bilbo moves closer. His thighs are this close from brushing the wood grain and the tablecloth that covers it.

“Know this, Thranduil Elvenking. The dwarves are under my protection. There is no elf out there that can best my power. Not even you. So attack them if you like. But hear this: you owe me. You held my people for weeks against their way in attempt to satisfy your curiosity. I have the right to seek retribution and you know it. Do what you will, but know that I am not endlessly merciful.” He snarls out the last few words, and his aura had grown stronger, entrapping the entire camp in the dreamlike daze of mesmerism as he unconsciously demonstrated his long controlled anger and the ability to destroy.

“He hurls insults like it a storm hurls snow. He demands what he doesn’t earn, yet you expect me to just give in to your demands! Hear this, Ezra, I will not give in because of your little demonstration,”

“He was sick!”

“He entered the layer of the dragon of his own volition!”

“That isn’t why! He was going to fall from the beginning! He was going to fall since the day you turned your back on a starving people!”

“The gold sickness has stretched far back into the Durin line,” Thranduil growls lowly. He doesn’t understand how this beast could have him so angry in so little time, but he doesn’t care right now. 

“I know the illness. It could have been thwarted. He could have been saved,” Thranduil suddenly goes cold. He had thought, when he turned away the dwarves, that the prince who had asked for his help would one day go mad and stab him in the back. He hadn’t even considered the prospect of… kindness (he thinks) changing the course of the disease.

“Gold sickness is cultivated in regularity and hardship; the concept that he who rules Erebor worked for it and did everything he or she could themselves. So do not speak to me about sickness, Thranduil, because it was your own selfish nature that invited the sickness of Dol Guldur. The catalyst was your turning the dwarves away.” Thranduil knows he’s lost; neither Bard nor Gandalf will intervene here, and Ezra’s word ring true (or, rather, as true as can be proved).

“How do I know I will not eventually have a mad king for a neighbor.” Bilbo withdraws from somewhere Thranduil doesn’t quite see a glowing thing. He sets it on the table.

“The Arkenstone,” Bilbo begins, “has magnified madness for generations. It’s always been there, but it’s so much more powerful with a stone fit for a god in the hands of the dwarven kings.”

“And you have it.”

“And in my possession it will remain, until I can drain it of its mesmeric powers.” Silence descends over the tent as Bilbo and Thranduil stare each other down. Gandalf’s worry has only increased. Bard is deep in thought.

“You have a deal,” Thranduil says. Bilbo looks to Bard.

“Yes.” 

“Gandalf. Gentlemen,” Bilbo says as he turns invisible. He’s gone before they can get another word in edgewise. When the strange powers disappear with him, Gandalf turns to Thranduil.

“I suggest you think very hard before trying anything.”

“What is he?”

“That’s not my secret to tell,” Gandalf says with a shake of his head as he rises. He has a dragon to talk to.

He finds Bilbo at the base of the rock wall he’d jumped off to get here. He’s sitting, leaned back against it, flipping a little knife in between his fingertips. 

His eyes are closed. He feels light headed. He had not meant to let his powers burn through the camps like that. All that energy with no direction or purpose burns a lot faster than anything else. He’s not drained- not by halves- but he is affected.

“I may be wrong,” Bilbo snorts. Gandalf. Wrong. That shit’s funny. “but you seem to have gotten yourself into a predicament.”

“They’re all going to pretend it never happened. Dwarves. Elves. Men. I didn’t want to mesmerise them all,” he’s skirting the issue, but Gandalf knows. He sits with Bilbo. After a bit, with the sun long set and the cold beginning to bite into Bilbo’s exposed skin, the wizard puts an arm round the reaper.

“It’ll be alright, Bilbo.”

“Doubtful.”

“Come now. Have faith. We both know you’ve gotten yourself out of worse.”

“I’ve never cared so much and had things be okay in the end.” Bilbo edges down into the hug. “They’re never okay like this. Archemydes. Lock. Now Thorin. It always ends so badly.” He breathed in barely a whisper. 

“So hope for a break in the pattern and do everything you can to make it so.” Bilbo nods. They sit there until the rays of the sun begin to bleed into the eastern horizon. 

“Thank you, Gandalf,” Bilbo says, spreading his crimson wings.

“My pleasure,” Gandalf tips his hat and turns to walk back to camp. Bilbo goes into his own abode to see that things are set. Today will make or break everything, and it must be prepared for.

 


	39. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets unfortunate piece of shit for a visitor.

Bilbo wakes up before dawn with an arm round his waist and Thorin’s even breathing at his back. As quietly and carefully as he can manage, he shifts down into a cat and wriggles out of the grip. Then he takes a moment to sit, as a hobbit, and survey the chamber of sleeping dwarves. He meets Ori’s sleepy eyes from where he and his brothers sleep. A nod of acknowledgement and assurance is their only communication.

Ori doesn’t not need to know what he’s gone and done. 

A few hours later, Thorin himself rises, along with the rest of the dwarves.

“Thorin, are we…?” Balin lets the question trail off, eyes finding Bilbo just before and reading his morose mood in his face.

“No. Dain’s army will be arriving any day now. I must speak with the Gandalf and Thranduil and Bard.” As he turns to find his way to the ancient spring he remembers from his youth, the dwarves all exchange glances, with the exception of Balin and Ori. It only takes them a few moments, and then more tense silence as Thorin’s footsteps fade.

“What have you done!?” Dwalin’s fierce and low question is entirely expected.

“Enough, I hope.” Then Bilbo himself disappears into thin air before the protective dwarf can ask him questions.

Three hours later, and Thorin is striding through the elven camp, head up, eyes more clear than Dwalin’s seen in days. He may not like whatever it is the dragon has done, but it’s worked.

As Thorin and the company ascend the ancient stone steps to the balcony Thorin had previously addressed Thranduil on. Bilbo, for a moment, feels untethered to his corporeal form. In the next step, his knee gives out from under him. His eyes close. His body falls as, in but a moment, a deep, deep sleep seizes the dragon prince and drags him away.

 

…

 

A few days later, Bilbo sits against the rock wall farthest from the treasury, head aching, stomach rioting, face paling. His breathing is even, but heavily controlled, nostrils flaring in the effort of it all. Thorin, next to him, moves the hair from his forehead and carefully pries an eyelid open so that he can see into it. Oh. 

His glamour has been dropped, molten eyes and tri diamond pupils rioting in their circular cages.

“What’s happening, Oin?” The dwarf, on the other side, doesn’t need to be a wizard to know that whatever is happening requires one.

“Get Gandalf.”

 

…

 

_ He’s running, chest moving up and down, breath coming out strained and whining, only to pull in a little less than the breath before. He feels trapped; caged, though there are no walls. He stops and whirls around and around, hands raised, ready to scratch and gouge with his long dragon’s claws.  _

_ One more sharp, spasmodic turn and he sees it. A thin roll of fog obliterates his actual features, and, though these grounds are ripe with crisp, dead leaves, his visitor makes no sound. His breath still pants the shallow gasps of a landed fish as he tries to see the shadow more clearly. _

_ “You killed me,” the shadow says.  _

_ “I’ve killed a lot of people,” Bilbo says. It should have come out as snark, but it doesn’t. It comes out breathless and scared and… and just a little bit titillated.  _

_ “I know, but I never thought you’d kill me.” The shadow steps forwards a bit, and Bilbo thinks he sees his mentor in the broad set of those shoulders and the gait… but he doesn’t. No, he sees a very tall, very pale dragon emerge from the obscurity. This dragon has icy, pale eyes, and his di-diamond pupils are so very familiar.  _

_ It’s at this moment, as their eyes lock and Winter emerges, that Bilbo realizes he’s dreaming. His breathing evens out abruptly, and he stops feeling dizzy. He rises from his half crouch, and looks around him more. It’s not so scary when you know what’s happening, after all. _

_ “It sounded fun,” he snarls, because he is definitely sure who would be behind this… dream. After all, there’s only one group who doesn’t know but would care that he didn’t kill Winter.  _

_ “ **You know what else**?” Winter charges him, then, as though realizing that Bilbo’s risen above the fear he became aware in. Of course, a mental image is not as good as a trained and seasoned reaper’s, so on the first pass, long nails dig into a muscular neck and Winter dissolves into thin air. _

_ “ **You know what else!**?” Bilbo calls out, angry now. How dare they!? How dare they invade his very mind on the pretense of ownership that hasn’t applied for years and years!? _

_ “ **I’m coming for you, incubus. I’m coming to get you, and don’t think you can hide, either. I’ll hunt you down** ,” he imagines the land on which he stands roiling, soft earth and dead leaves turned into a sea of maggots and small insects. “I’ll drag you out!” He roars as he imagines the mist to be his own personal army. They run around and stab expertly at thin air. The screaming begins here. _

_ “ I **’ll have your heart by ripping it from your cowardly chest**!” he growls. He imagines everything in pain, and the screaming intensifies. He drops among his own twisted little bugs and bares his teeth in a merciless smile. The dream falls apart, its maker in no way prepared for the powerful steel trap of Bilbo’s weathered mind.  _

_ Light begins to fill his vision, but he doesn’t give up until he feels the presence leaves him floating in the ether of a destroyed dream. Then, and only then, does he close his eyes once more, and let sleep claim him. _

 

…

 

“Where’ve you been, _ dreki _ ?” Thranduil’s voice draws him from the last of his slumber. Bilbo pushes himself up on shaking, tired arms. He feels like he fought a war. He feels like he’s swum from here to the Lavender isles.

He swings his legs over the edge of the… cot? he didn’t fall asleep here. Then again, an elvenking just correctly identified his origins. He eyes the blond king, icy eyes on deep purple. He rolls his head back, exposing, for a moment, the long column of his neck before he stands. As he does, the circular motion of his stretch seems to move down to his body.

He shifts down in front of Thranduil, his long and red body replaced by a hobbit’s.

“Wherever the winds did take me.” Then he’s gone. Ori’s right outside the tent. He jumps at Bilbo, wrapping his arms, imbued with the same iron strength of his brother, around his shoulders.

“You’ve been asleep for days!” he says, voice tight and high with worry. 

“We had to get Gandalf, who moved you out of the mountain. He said the gold was getting to you.”

“He was right. Where are we?” he said, turning and-

A long, elvish horn calls the troops to battle. Bilbo’s heard it before. 

It means the orcs are on the horizon.

 


	40. Molten Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of The Five Armies. 'Nough said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, guys. This is the second to last chapter! There's just the epilogue left to write! Let me know what you think.

He’s dimly aware of Thranduil sweeping out of the tent behind him. Bilbo shuts his eyes and, hand on Ori’s shoulder, pinpoints every member of the company by their auras. He opens his eyes and looks at Ori, who has grown uncomfortable with the tightness of Bilbo’s grip.

“We need to get to the others!” Ori says as elves and men and dwarves run by him in an organized sort of panic.

“Then do hang on.” Bilbo smiles as he shifts up and takes Ori with him. He can feel the excitement flowing through his veins. He can feel it pushing him to kill something. Anything. He disappears into thin air as he spreads his wings and lifts off the ground, one of the most valued people he’s ever come across clinging in fear and exhilaration to his shoulders.

He sweeps molten eyes over the landscape and- there.

He alights on muddy ground (when did it rain?) and releases Ori, becoming visible at the same time. He gives a lopsided, sharp toothed grin to Dwalin, whose eyes follow Ori until Dori blocks his vision, then he turns to Bilbo and tosses him the magical sword he’d been entrusted with when Bilbo had fallen unconscious some days prior.

“Get yer beauty sleep, dragon?” Bilbo catches the sword and immediately draws it from its sheath. it seems to Dwalin that the metal object has a great deal of power on its own (Gandalf had told them not to take it out), because as soon as it is almost free, Bilbo appears to be veritably glowing. He rolls his head, bright red neck flashing for a moment before dark armored scales raise on his skin.

“Got more than that,” he responds as he holds his sword and takes a strange sort of one-two-three step.

“Yeah?”

“Not now,” Thorin interrupts as he strides out of the tent Bilbo had alighted in front of. Bilbo immediately stops to watch him, half way through the third… thing he’s doing.

“Right. Orcs and all that.” Bilbo sheaths his sword, eyes beginning to redden and swirl in his face. 

“Be careful,” he says, addressing the group.

“Where will you be?”

“Malcolm draws close. He’ll not leave the battle alive,” then Bilbo is gone. 

…

Bilbo feels toxic, the blood in his veins laughing and singing. The air is cold against his skin as his wings disturb it to keep him up. He jets over the running creatures below him and lands directly next to Thranduil.

“Elvenking,” Bilbo says, becoming visible once more. Thranduil, on his great elk, turns his icy blue eyes on him. Bilbo smirks.

“What do you want?” his guards, which have started and seem to wish to remove him from their king’s presence, cannot move. Not even the ancient elves of Thranduil’s guards can penetrate his aura now. 

“ _ Fortuna,  _ _ dryadalumve rex _ ,” then he’s gone again. It feels as though he’s left something behind with Thranduil.

…

Bilbo feels disjointed. There are bodies. Bodies everywhere.

Flesh slicing and sliced.

Blood spilt, blood retained.

Teeth knocked loose, bones broken.

Necks snapped. 

Not every orc is undead. In fact, most of them aren’t. 

Still.

There is enough that Bilbo, even though he is so much higher than all that, wants to be down there, ripping out long unliving jugulars. He must wait, though. 

He must wait and he must be patient, because his prize comes. 

It comes behind the army.

It comes behind the death. 

It is madness’s facilitator. 

It is a Necromancer.

Come, it does, great wings stretched on either side of it. It flies low to the ground, looking for its invisible enemy that is so high above the rest.

Bilbo (Ezra, Mercy) rises just slightly before tucking wings against back and dropping like a stone, only to flair once more and meet it on a little hill. Bilbo clashes with it, thin sword against a thick staff with a dark blue gemstone embedded in the tip. 

The sword is magic, though. It shall not break. 

It smacks you once across the cheek. 

It is first blood. The trickle falls down your face as you meet its eyes and jet at it. While it can block your rapier, it cannot block your forehead, which slams forwards and hits it in the nose. Bilbo feels the crunch, but it doesn’t bleed.

It should, though. It should be spouting a fountain. If it’s not, it’s truly very far gone. Bilbo attempts to get a hand under the staff and grab at its guts. Bilbo fails, and he opens up another cut across one cheek and forces him back. 

“Are you forgetting something, Reaper?!” it yells at Bilbo. Then he sees it. On the little hill they had met over, the dwarf king fights. 

Bilbo sees him impaled on… on a hook of the hand of the orc he dispatched. Bilbo’s face falls as an ill feeling churns and rises in his gut. Then he’s gone, leaving Malcolm to his own devices as Bilbo tries to reach Thorin.

It’s not enough, though. 

Bilbo reaches him in time to shove a clawed hand through the small of Azog’s back and to twist it, pulling the life force itself from the disgusting body. Azog drops.

“THORIN!” He yells, hauling Thorin’s body closer and pressing a hand against a gaping wound. 

“Thorin, wait,” and he doesn't know why he’s begging- Thorin can’t do anything. Bilbo raises a hand and realizes that he just pulled the life from a body, and there’s another body in front of him…

“BILBO,” Thorin rasps, grasping his wrist. Bilbo comes back to himself. He can’t Raise. He can’t. No matter what he wants, he cannot do it. 

“Stay with me,” he says. Thorin laughs a bit, but it hurts him. 

“Love, don’t, okay?” he seems to take a moment to draw himself up to the challenge of speaking. The sounds of battle and the bloodlust that had run through Bilbo’s veins just moments ago.

“Thor-”

“Listen, you daft creature! I’ll wait for you, but I was not meant to live like this.” Bilbo eases up on Thorin’s chest just a fraction as he realizes. Thorin knew. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew. He knew what Bilbo did. He knew and…

And he did not go.

“Bind me,” Thorin commands in the next second. 

“Are you sure?” It was something Bilbo had told him in the dead of one melancholy night when neither of them could sleep.

“Do I look uncertain?” he gritted through clenched teeth. Bilbo leans over, a hand rising from the wound to wrap around Thorin’s ear. In the other, he whispers.

_ “I am Mercy of the Molten Eye. On my soul, we will meet again,  _ _ fortitudo mea.” _

Thorin’s last breath leaves his mouth as a powerful burst of energy hits Bilbo from behind again, flinging both himself and the body of Thorin off the hill.

“Hmm. Now, that, I didn’t expect. Touching, though.” Bilbo looks at the corpse he has in arms. From around his neck, he grips his pendant and breaks it, slipping it underneath the edge of Thorin’s coat. No Necromancer will dare touch him, now. Bilbo lets the body go and rises. He doesn’t bother to stop the tears making tracks down his face. 

For a moment, Malcolm gets an uncertain look in his eyes, like maybe he just bit off more than he could chew. Then it's wiped away. This is the apprentice of his father's and his grandfather's killer. He'll not back down now.

He meets Malcolm's eyes and raises both arms to just below half mast.  _ Come and get me, then. _

Malcolm lowers his head, grins, and charges.


	41. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of you didn't really get what I wrote, and so I've given the epilogue an edit. It's going up today because I won't get a chance to post for the next two days.

The gentle waves brewed in the night lap at the boat, creating a kind of discord that Bilbo finds soothing. The gentle rocking of the deck, the whip-waving of the sails, the creak of old and magicked wood, and the smell of sea salt and brine and fish seem to clamour for his attention, but in a good way. 

He stands at the ship’s bow, invisible. His hair, wild and untamed in the briney air, seems to move of its own accord, should there be one who can see it. 

“Turning yourself invisible does not hide you from seers, Thorne,” a voice behind him says.

“Oh, I know, but it stops most people from talking to me,”

“We’re almost there.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I would not worry, if I were you. They can smell fear,” Bilbo laughs.

“I’m not scared. Just angry.” just venomous. Just dangerous. Just a von Thorne. 

Just like his father.

“Well, we’ll be there by the morning,” Orchid departs, leaving Bilbo to brood. Briefly, he wonders about Cinder- whether or not his old enemy of a brother would embrace him to kill or to welcome. 

It doesn’t matter; he is the most infamous of the black sheep to make it off the Lavender Isles. He needs no such thing as an embrace. Just now, his head is quite suddenly filled to the brim with a very white, very painful light.

_ Hello, Mercy _ .

The white light does not immediately do what it was meant to do. No, instead the seer who has attacked him must wrestle with the memories and the madness of Bilbo’s mind, and for a moment, she herself is sucked into one.

 

…

 

_ The procession is silent, and among the ranks of the mourners, Bilbo Baggins is taking intentionally slow breaths, trying to keep it together long enough to get through the funerals.  _

_ One by one, the three caskets are lowered into the ground, and dwarves speak in Khuzdul of their great king and his great heirs. Bilbo wonders how long they would drag out the hate they’d have for him if they knew what he’d done. _

_ When all is done, and when only the Company remains, Bilbo silently falls to his knees, hands shoved into his hair, face growing hot with the restraint he’s exerting on himself right now. It’s a powerful thing, his grief, accumulating and rolling through and around him. _

_ Though he tries to hold it back- a Reaper must be strong, because no one else can be for him or her- he cannot quite manage it, so he pours all his pain and his anger and his power into a single, fat tear. It tracks up the bridge of his nose, potent and meaningful, until it falls from his face and hits the floor. _

_ His mouth, open and twisted into a snarl, does not emit a sound, even as the room seems ripple with the emotion in him. _

_ Never again, he thinks. Even though Thorin will one day return to him (a foolish choice on Bilbo’s part, really) and even though the pull will be strong, he will not ever approach him while the both of them are living. Not even if he’s crumbling inside. _

_ It will merely end like this again, in a place with a body or three and a big, empty hole in his chest. Breath seems to return to him, then, because his chest suddenly begins to work double time, slowly calming. When he can manage it, he rises, wipes the excess water from nose, and shakes his head, resettling his hair and smoothing his expression over. _

_ “Goodbye everyone,” he says, addressing the remaining members of the company.  _

_ “Will we see you again?” Bilbo turns his face and gives Ori a long look. He’d like to say yes, he’d be back some day, but this right here is why Reapers do no such thing as keep friends. _

_ “I don’t think so,” he says. Then he disappears. _

 

…

 

With a powerful burst, she regains control, and quickly sucks the fighting mind in her metaphorical hands toward what she wants; toward what she was told to want.

**Author's Note:**

> It just occurred to me that I zombied the hobbit and didn't even realize it.


End file.
